


the tenderest touch leaves the darkest of marks

by AtoTheBean



Series: Dangerous Potential [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Anal Sex, BDSM, Bondage, Contracts, Electricity, M/M, Neck Kissing, Negotiations, Oral Sex, Rope Bondage, Semi-Public Sex, Sex Club, Sex Toys, Suspension, Violet Wand, more tags as we go
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-08-01
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 29,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25046803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtoTheBean/pseuds/AtoTheBean
Summary: Bond set Q homework after their scene at the Halloween Costume Party: think about what he wants.The problem is, Q wants a lot.  Some he can tell Bond.  Some he can barely admit to himself.A sequel to "Hiding Behind Costumes, Revealing Everything".
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Series: Dangerous Potential [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813993
Comments: 178
Kudos: 171
Collections: 007 Fest Fancreations





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's taken me a while to get back to this, but I'm looking forward to getting back to the arc I always intended for these boys.
> 
> Please note that the top center picture comes from @justanothertumblrtart, who posts that it's okay to use his photos for things as long as they're credited. The others were nicked off the interwebs unattributed.
> 
> Many thanks to Dart and Mid for betaing.
> 
> In addition to these chapters in Q's POV, I may do some headcanons over on Tumblr from other characters' POV. If I do, I'll try to link those in the author's notes as I go.

It feels like it’s been _months_ since the Halloween costume party at the club, but seeing how he’s just now finally able to sit without wincing — most of the time — Q knows it’s only been a few days.

That first day he spends just floating in the bliss that comes after a good session — in that and a good deal of bathwater, because Bond was right about the bruising. The second day, he does what he promised Bond and really _thinks_ about what he wants.

He makes lists for himself, because whether he’s Q or Kerr or someone in between, that’s what he does. Lists of things he’d _never_ show Bond. Wishes he’s barely able to admit to himself. Things that he’s sure he’s just not meant to have in his life. Things that are for the people he dedicates his life to protecting.

And he makes lists for Bond. Hard limits and desires. Topics he gleaned from the colored bracelets he saw on Bond’s wrist at the costume party, but that bear further exploration.

Halfway through this process, his nerves kick in. What if it truly had been a terrible idea to do a scene with Bond? Q’s always kept his work life and personal life separate — and sometimes his fetish life and personal life separate as well, though that’s proved more problematic. Bond seemed just as keen as he was and definitely interested in more, but Q can’t quite ignore that little niggle in the back of his brain telling him it’s dangerous to let Bond have this over him. It could be so disastrous…

And it could also be wonderful. It had been an _extraordinary_ scene. Just imagine where Bond could take him once they got to know each other. And there’s also the understanding that they’d each have of one another’s moods and availability because of their knowledge of work… but of course, that could prove a double-edged sword.

By the time he enters the branch on Monday, he’s a bit of a wreck. Still feeling a secret smile break across his lips whenever he tries to sit and feels the bruising, but also on edge, anticipating that someone has heard or that Bond will make a point to come to him and...he’s not sure what. Behave inappropriately. Make it hard for him to be _Q_.

Of course, none of that happens. He doesn’t even _see_ Bond his first day back on the job, and good thing, because he’s monitoring a right mess of a mission and it really does take all his concentration. He stands at his station in the branch all day — handy, since sitting for any length of time is still uncomfortable. By the time he’s got 003 safely extracted, it’s late. He’s not surprised to see the branch sparsely populated, and he’s relieved to get home and have a bath.

It’s not until the second day, when he enters M’s office for a meeting called an hour earlier, that he’s startled to find Bond already sitting in one of the leather guest chairs, pressed grey suit and crisp white shirt making him appear every bit 007 and not the Dom from the weekend. Still sexy as hell, but a sexiness Q is used to dealing with on a daily basis, and one that isn’t directed at him. Necessarily.

They nod at each other in greeting and Q sits, flinching slightly. If Bond’s lips quirk, it’s brief enough that Q’s not even sure he’s seen it. Certainly, M doesn’t notice.

The meeting is brief and to the point. 007 is being sent to Paris for a short mission, leaving that afternoon and returning after a party tomorrow evening. An arms dealer supplying bombs that are making their way into the Syrian conflict is rumored to be attending, and it’s the first break they’ve had in getting close to him since they learned his name two weeks ago. The reconnaissance will require some specialized equipment. Q leaves M’s office, nodding at Moneypenny and entering the elevator as he makes notes on his tablet. It will be a challenge to get this lot ready in time for—

“Down to Q Branch, Quartermaster?” Bond asks, his finger hovering over the buttons.

“I… yes, please, uh, Bond.”

Bond presses the button and the doors close.

“Your kit won’t be ready for several hours,” Q warns, wondering why Bond is following him.

“I’m sure,” Bond replies. “R asked me to check the sight on the sniper rifle that was being adjusted.”

“Oh, of course,” Q says, relaxing a bit, but still on edge.

Bond places his hands in his pockets, and rocks on the balls of his feet. Q waits for the innuendo, not quite sure what to make of Bond’s behavior. It’s almost _too_ polite. Bond asks, “What car are you sending me with?”

“The DB5 is too flashy for this mission,” Q answers, giving Bond a sly smile as if to say ‘nice try’. “You can have one of the Beemers if you like.”

“If I must,” James replies with a small sigh, giving the reflective doors a small smile. It’s... comfortable. A slightly more polite version of their usual banter. “Will you be in my ear?”

“Ah, tomorrow, definitely. I think I’ll have Graham on hand for you during your drive and getting settled tonight, with R as back-up. Of course, if something drastic happens, I can be pulled in.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything drastic tonight,” Bond assures.

The doors open and Bond holds them open for Q to go through first. And it’s not that Bond is generally rude, but he seems to be going out of his way to show Q deference. They enter the branch still chatting about the gear for the mission, and then Bond spots R and excuses himself to go meet her.

As Q watches him make his way across the labyrinth of stations, Q thinks maybe… just maybe…

The mission goes off without a hitch. Bond manages to get a tracker program onto the mark’s phone using a secure “airdrop”-like technology that gives Q access to push more behind-the-scenes malware to pull contacts, GIS coordinates, pictures — the works. By the time Bond reappears in the branch Thursday afternoon, Q has teams going through the data and determining next targets.

“Quartermaster,” Bond greets.

“007,” Q replies. “What have you got for me?”

For a fraction of a second Q catches a gleam in Bond’s eyes, but the mask of 007 is back before he can even be sure. Bond hands the kit to Q and watches as he opens it and checks in each piece of tech. His gaze is intent, making Q first look up at him and then reexamine the case containing Bond’s tech. He spies a blank business card lodged between the case and the foam. He pulls it out and finds a handwritten message on the back: an address, date, and time, and a phone number Q doesn’t recognize. Actually, he’s pretty sure this is _Bond’s_ address.

He looks up at Bond, noting the raised eyebrow and questioning expression.

“Everything appears to be in order, 007,” Q says with a subtle nod, slipping the card into his pocket. “Thank you for returning all of the equipment. And well done on the mission. We’ve already briefed M on the data we’ve been able to extract, but I’m sure he’ll like to hear a brief from you as well.”

“I’ll be sure to stop by his office before I leave,” Bond assures.

“Well then, enjoy your weekend, 007.”

“Oh, I intend to.”

It’s a comment that seems innocuous — or at least only _generally_ suggestive — to anyone listening in. Q, on the other hand, can feel the heat rising in his cheeks. Fortunately, Bond leaves without bringing attention to it.

Q is too busy the rest of the day to give it much thought. That evening though, he mulls over the piece of paper as he eats his dinner alone in his flat, barely noticing the skyline of London shimmering in the cold air beyond the large windows. Ten a.m. on Saturday. Not much to go on. He washes up his meal and pads over to the drinks cabinet in the sitting room, pouring himself a finger of scotch before walking down the hall, past the gym to his office. He opens the wrapper on a new burner phone from his stash, enters the number Bond gave as the sole contact, and sends a text:

_K: So, 10 on Saturday..._

It takes a moment for the reply to come through.

_Sir: I was hoping you’d contact me. I was thinking we could meet over breakfast, but considering the conversation we need to have, thought it best to eat in. Omelets?_

_Sir: Of course, if you’d rather meet somewhere more neutral, I can try to find a private room._

Q considers that offer for a moment, deciding Bond’s prioritization of privacy seems for the best.

_K: Omelets at yours sound lovely. Is there anything I should bring?_

_Sir: Just the homework I set you. Do you have any eating restrictions?_

_K: I’m not a fan of cucumbers._

_Sir: No cucumber omelets. Got it. I’ll see you at 10, then._

He still has to work the next day, so other than making sure he has no additions to the lists he made over the weekend, he doesn’t allow himself to dwell on things.

Friday is painfully slow, giving him time to think as he sorts through tech requests and budget justifications. He thinks about the scene during the party. He thinks about the way he and Bond function as a team on missions, and the way he specifically acted on this mission — professional, respectful, treating him like Q, though he knows Kerr is buried under the tie and collared shirt. There’s a strange similarity, really. Because Bond was respectful during their scene at the club as well. Demanding, but respectful. But more than that, their banter felt natural during the scene. Even as Bond had him suspended and spread and stuffed with a toy… just as he was showing Q that he intended to torture his balls… they were having fun. “ _Please don’t make me laugh with this inside me,_ ” he’d asked. Because they _were_ laughing through the scene, just as they quip and laugh through missions, without letting it interfere with the actual work.

But what was most compelling was the drink they had afterward. How they spoke as equals in the afterglow with a camaraderie that came _both_ from the scene and from the missions. Where they contemplated the potential between them. And though he had doubts in the beginning of the week, now that they’ve had another mission post-scene, he finds he’s more excited than nervous about pursuing things. Of being Q _and_ Kerr and something else… something in between. Something… well, it’s been a long time since he’s dared to wish for anything like that.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's right... two chapters in two days!
> 
> Please don't get used to it. This is not the pace I intend to maintain. I don't have THAT much prewritten, and rl will get in the way. I just want to get the scene set, as it were, because I intend to have other related content on tumblr (headcanons, fanedits) that will only make sense once we're in the story a bit. 
> 
> Thanks again to Dart and Mid for betaing, and to all of you who have commented!

That night he cleans his entire flat, because he’s too excited to do anything else. The next morning he wakes early and prepares himself as if he’s getting ready to go to the club, just in case. He dresses normally — for the most part — and arrives at Bond’s flat exactly on time.

Bond opens the door looking ridiculously sexy in jeans and blue cashmere, and welcomes Q in. The flat is… not what Q’s expected. It’s nice, in a nice part of town. There’s music playing and the welcome aroma of tea and coffee, but visually… it appears only half moved into. Pictures are leaning against walls rather than hung, as if Bond is still deciding where things go. The bookcases are filled haphazardly. Nothing appears organized or in place, and boxes remain shoved against the wall, opened, but not unpacked, as if Bond went looking for something and when he found it, he couldn’t be bothered with the rest. It all feels neglected and vaguely discomforting.

Except the kitchen.

As Q sits at the bar watching Bond cook, he realizes that the kitchen is fully stocked and organized in a way that reminds Q that Bond was once a naval officer. Everything is just where Bond wants it. He barely looks as he reaches for spices or herbs as he chats with Q about the week’s missions. It’s unrushed and comfortable, and fascinating to watch Bond be so very competent in something so unrelated to the skillsets Q’s familiar with. Soon Q’s stomach is actually growling as delightful aromas tease his senses. Finally, Q is sitting beside Bond sipping at strong tea and eating what is possibly the best omelet he’s had in… well, he’s not sure. It’s not the sort of thing he’d normally bother with. It’s delicious and satisfying, but light. He feels energized when he’s done, though that might also be the company.

“I have some scones if you’re still peckish,” Bond says as he clears the plates.

“No thank you. I wouldn’t say no to a spot more tea, though,” Q says, making Bond smile.

When their drinks are refreshed, Bond sets several sheets of A4 in front of Q, and the air between them shifts, becoming both more businesslike and more charged.

“I took the liberty of drafting a contract for your review. There are still a lot of blanks — hard limits and such — but I thought it would be helpful to have a start, at least. Did you bring the homework I set?”

“Yes. Well, you told me to think about what I want, and I have, though perhaps not everything made it onto the page,” Q says, pulling a sheet of paper from his backpack and handing it over. “But hard limits are there, along with some clarification of things you may have gleaned from my bracelets at the party.”

“Excellent,” Bond says, and they fall into a comfortable silence as they each review their paperwork.

Q doesn’t make it past the first page, however, before he starts skimming. He looks up when he reaches the end to find Bond studying him intently, reading his body language as only a spy or Dom really can.

“You’re disappointed,” Bond surmises.

There’s no point in hiding it. “You’re proposing a one-month in which we go to the club once a weekend, presuming neither of us has a mission. That’s a maximum of four scenes.”

Bond tilts his head, studying him. “I assumed you’d appreciate the deference to work; particularly to _your_ position.”

“I do,” Q assures quickly. “It’s just, when it’s laid out like that, it doesn’t feel like enough time with you. Unless that’s as much time you want from me—”

“No. I’m quite amenable to more contact. I just didn’t want to drive you away with too many demands. As we discussed that night, we are quite compatible in many ways, but the logistics and dynamics will be challenging. I sensed a certain level of trepidation from you at work this week. I thought perhaps it would be best to keep things simple.”

Q takes a sip of tea to collect his thoughts.

“I understand your logic, but I’m not sure I see the point of this if neither of us is getting what we actually want.”

Bond leans his elbows against the table. “What is it you think I want that this contract wouldn’t satisfy?”

“Well, you were wearing a yellow bracelet that night,” Q responds, looking around the flat. “I assumed… were you _not_ looking for a domestic sub?”

“Ah,” Bond says, leaning back in his chair as he folds his hands together. “I see the confusion. Well, as you’re well aware, my life is hardly conducive to keeping a sub in my flat. What would I tell them when I disappeared for days or weeks on end?”

“So… what did it signify?” Q asks.

Bond looks away, looking a bit embarrassed. “I… I like to go out — nice restaurants, theater — but my life isn’t particularly conducive to _dating_ , either. I was thinking that if I could collar a sub, I could take them out — not just to the club, but to dinners or plays — _while collared_. Maybe even as part of a long, subtle scene, wearing a toy or something else along with their collar under their street clothes. The dynamic would appear like a date to anyone watching, but I would be able to relax, because _I’d_ be in charge. Holding a metaphorical lead and perhaps a literal remote.”

Q’s mouth goes dry. “That’s not listed in here,” he says, holding up the contract.

“I didn’t think you’d want to do that.”

“It sounds hot as hell. Why wouldn’t I?”

Bond’s eyes darken. “I just thought that because we know each other, it would feel more like a date, and that you’d want to avoid the ambiguity.”

“I’m fairly certain I can keep the dynamics straight with a toy up my arse and your hand on the remote, no matter how nice the table linens are.”

Bond’s eyes grow even darker. “Well, that’s good to know.”

Q looks around the flat at the general state of disuse. He’s sure that the areas Bond frequents are organized: the kitchen, perhaps the bedroom, the closet full of suits. But the rest just exists, essentially ignored. It makes Q wonder if it’s a manifestation of Bond’s neglect of his personal life. This isn’t a place that one would use to impress a potential lover, or even try to seduce a one-night stand.

Not that Q is one to talk. Not that the relative tidiness of Q’s flat is an indication of frequent entertaining...

But it does make Q wonder if perhaps Bond needs a domestic more than he realizes.

“Do you have that contract in electronic format?” he asks, turning back to Bond, who is studying him again.

“Of course.”

“I’d like to make a counter-proposal, but I need to check something at work. Would you be willing to meet again in a few hours? Or tomorrow, if that’s better for you?”

If Bond is taken aback by the request, he doesn’t show it. “I was planning on picking up some things across town this afternoon, but I should be done around half four.”

“That should work,” Q agrees. He looks over the contract again, focusing on Bond’s hard limits. There’s a space for ‘Expectations and Options’ that currently includes a total of three sentences regarding behavior at the club. “Why don’t you flesh out this section with options for the sorts of activities you’d like us to participate in — while collared — outside the club before sending it to me? What you had in mind with that yellow bracelet.” He takes the pen sitting on the desk and scribbles a new encrypted email address he’s created just for this situation. “If you can send that to me before you leave for your errands, I’ll add my limits and other proposed changes and have it ready by three.”

James nods, looking slightly uncomfortable. “I’m sorry I didn’t do a better job anticipating what you want out of the contract.”

“That’s hardly your fault, James. And I feel more comfortable negotiating with you than I might with someone else. I’m sure we can get it to something that will satisfy both our needs.”

“It’s not like me to be too conservative, though,” he contemplates. “Too careful.”

Q nods. “I’ll take it as the compliment you intended. But you should know: you challenged me during that first scene. That’s part of the appeal for me. I appreciate your caution, but the last week has shown me that you _can_ treat me one way at work and another at the club. You’ve convinced me that we are both able to compartmentalize. I think we should take better advantage of it.”

Bond smiles. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

“You’ll be carrying your office phone as well?”

“Always.” Bond looks mildly curious at the question, but lets it go as Q collects his things, thanking Bond for a delicious breakfast.

Q can’t do anything until he gets home to the computer that can connect with the office VPN and personnel programs. From there it’s not hard to make the changes he needs, but will likely take a few hours for the approvals to go through. James sends the draft contract just as Q is getting antsy waiting, giving Q a chance to focus on the edits. By three o'clock, he’s able to send a text with his address and “at your convenience” to James.

He surveys the flat as he waits. Nothing really needs tidying, but he tries to view it through a stranger’s eyes. It reads as contemporary, though the exposed brick is surely Victorian era. The sitting room, kitchen, and dining room are all open to each other, and the view out the window offers local rooftops and the skyline of London’s central district in the distance. All this openness belies the more private parts of the flat: a small gym and office off the main room to the east, and a hall to the west leading to a bathroom, bedroom, and the master suite.

It’s at least as large as Bond’s flat, judging from the parts he saw. Too big, really, for one person and two cats who never entertain. Q loves the lines of the place, and has filled it as best he can. The bookcases, at least, are full. But he feels a bit like he’s still growing into it.

He pulls the contract up on a tablet — not a work device — and waits. His proposal is probably _too_ bold. They’ll likely meet somewhere in the middle, and Q vows not to be disappointed if that’s the case. Hell, he probably would have signed the original contract if Bond had held firm on the terms.

But that scene on Halloween had been extraordinary, and _this_ feels more in kind. Hopefully, Bond will think so, too.

There’s a knock on the door a bit before four. James, astute as ever, only seems mildly surprised as Q opens the door.

“I wasn’t aware I had clearance to know the Quartermaster’s address,” he says as Q ushers him in.

“You didn’t, this morning. But now you do. Part of what I needed to take care of at work.”

Bond raises an eyebrow. He’s changed into a suit — his errands required some formality, apparently — and is carrying a small attache. Only his smile and his stance as he comes in make him seem like James and not 007. Q is going to have to get good at telling the difference.

“Come in,” he says, turning to the interior of the flat, pleased as he hears Bond follow. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“What are you offering?”

“Water? Scotch? Glass of wine?”

“Water to start with. Then perhaps a scotch,” Bond answers as he looks around. “This is lovely, Q. Considering the state of your office, I assumed your flat would be a cluttered array of books and tech. This is almost minimalist, though comfortable.”

“It’s exactly because work is so chaotic that I try to keep this space tidy, though the home office is definitely less so,” Q answers as he hands Bond a glass of water and leads him to a small, round table in the dining area. “And thank you. I’m glad you like it.”

He opens a tablet with the revised contract and pushes it across the table toward Bond.

He feels nervous as Bond looks it over. Feels underdressed in his own home, now that Bond is wearing a suit. Though Bond looks good in it. Dominant in a completely different kind of way that affects Q almost as much, now that they’re outside the work environment and he allows himself to feel it. Q sits in the chair next to Bond and forces himself to be calm and patient, channeling his sub training.

Bond takes a sip of water as he scrolls, raising an eyebrow as he reads. He’s thorough but reasonably fast, turning to study Q when he’s finished. Q doesn’t fidget under the scrutiny… much. Bond’s expression is assessing: part Dom sizing him up, and part something else. Spy maybe, or just _James_.

“You’re proposing that I move in.”

“Just for the duration of the contract.”

“Which is to the end of the calendar year.”

Q shrugs. “We’ve already lost a week. This way, even if you have to go on mission, we should get a solid month’s time together. And with you here, we wouldn’t be limited to weekends at the club, or even the odd venture out to the theater. We could exercise a certain level of… spontaneity. Though clearly on week-nights there’d be a have to be a deference to work schedules.”

“Of course. But this is your home. Navigating the dynamics...”

“Since we wouldn’t be limiting ourselves to our play to the club, we’d rely on another symbol.”

“A collar.”

“Exactly.”

“So, when we’re at work, you have the power—”

“Such as it is,” Q replies.

“And when we’re here under normal circumstances we’re… flatmates? With equal standing.”

Q nods.

“But if we’re here and you’re collared—”

“You can command me to crawl across my own sitting room floor and suck your cock. Yes, exactly.”

And there it is! The expression of a deliciously surprised and intrigued Dom. The look he’s remembered from the club and fallen asleep thinking of almost every night since. The reason that a few sessions at the club seemed woefully inadequate. It would look dangerous if he didn’t trust Bond so bloody much.

“Shall we try it?” Bond asks, reaching under his chair for his attache and pulling out the collar from that night. “I planned to give it to you if this wasn’t going to work out. Couldn’t imagine using it on anyone else. But perhaps we should press it into service. Make sure that it doesn’t feel ridiculous to do a scene in such a domestic environment before signing a two-month contract stipulating exactly that."

Q doesn’t say a word. He stares at the wide leather of the collar, remembering the feel of it against his throat.

Then he meets Bond’s gaze for a moment and leans forward, elongating his neck.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Mid and Dart for betaing!

The only reason Q can hear Bond’s soft gasp is that the room is utterly quiet except for some very soft music. He would have missed it in the club, and that alone is reason to think that _this_ is a very good idea.

He watches Bond study him, reading his body language, sees Bond’s eyes darken as Q’s submission registers. Bond’s shoulders shift as his Dom persona slips into place, and Q’s cock twitches. He allows his eyes to fall closed as he feels the leather against his throat.

When it’s fastened, he starts to move to his knees.

“No.”

Q freezes and opens his eyes, silently seeking instructions.

Bond turns his chair further so that he’s facing Q rather than the table. He leans back and licks his lips. “Shoes and socks off. Your shirt as well.”

Q’s fingers are at his buttons before he’s consciously made the decision to obey, and James adjusts himself as he watches.

“Now, up here. Straddle me,” he orders after Q neatly sets his clothes aside. “That’s it. Hands clasped behind your back. Christ, you mind prettily.”

Bond strokes Q’s chest possessively, skimming his thumbs across his nipples, trailing fingertips up to the edge of his collar and back down, following the thin line of hair below his navel to the edge of his trousers and then back up. Q is just starting to feel lost in it when Bond says, “I have some questions for you… we’re not negotiating. I wouldn’t do that when you’re collared. Just a few points of clarification.”

Q nods, shivering as Bond’s hands move to his arse and pull him closer. They aren’t close enough to grind together yet, but Bond’s trousers are nicely tented and Q’s erection is very apparent in the stretched fabric of his spread trousers. Bond shifts his hands to Q’s hips, thumbs tracing the outline of Q’s bulge.

“So, one of your hard limits is ‘no sharing.’ But the night of the party, you were wearing a green bracelet, meaning…”

“‘Multiple-party play acceptable’,” Q confirms, gasping as Bond’s thumb lightly strokes the line of his bulge. “It’s more to do with… feeling valued and knowing whom I need to listen to. I once had a Dom… oh, that’s nice… he… handed me off to several friends and jerked himself off as he watched. I couldn’t tell whose commands I was supposed to follow. All of them? The leader? None of them? Was it a test? It proved an uncomfortable scene for me, and while one expects that at the club where the parties don’t know each other, it’s something I’d like to avoid. Now, on the other hand, if we were at the club like _this_ … or even more intimate. If you were teasing me and called a friend over and told me to suck him off while you teased… that I couldn’t come until he had… that wouldn’t be a problem because _you_ are still calling the shots. You are the one I’m obeying and he’s just another toy at your disposal. But if he started giving commands, or grabbing at me—”

“I’d never allow that,” Bond interrupts sharply, face dangerous at the imaginary transgression.

“Good,” Q says. “I wouldn’t want that. And it seems you wouldn’t like it either, so we’re aligned. We can clarify the language in the contract.”

“I’ll want us to be exclusive for the duration of the contract,” Bond says. “Sorry, this is approaching negotiation now, but it feels related.”

Q nods. “Except for whomever you decide to bring into our play, and of course whatever is required on mission. And no one else can come _here_ , obviously.”

“Multi-play confined to the club,” Bond agrees, unfastening Q’s belt and unbuttoning his trousers, starting on his flies. “Now, one more bit of clarification. You wrote no— hold up. What is _this_?” Bond asks, peeling back the opening of Q’s trousers to reveal Q’s hard cock showing through black lace.

“Oh,” Q shivers at the cool air on his heated skin. “Ah, you seemed to appreciate the fishnet stockings of the costume… they were the only thing you left on. So I thought I’d experiment and see how you like the lace.”

Bond drags a thumb across it as Q bites back a groan. “Do you wear these to work?”

“No. Never. But I have a quite varied assortment of clubwear and I’m trying to suss out your taste when I’m not in a costume.”

“But you like them?” Bond asks in clarification. “You didn’t buy them specifically for my sake.”

“I like a lot of things, but yes. I have a fair amount of lace. Nothing that’s trying to pass for female, but…” he whimpers and Bond shifts his hand. “I’m… my build is still lithe and somewhat androgynous. I’m too old to play at being boyish or twinkish, but somehow mixing the lace in works for me. But if you don’t like it—”

“I didn’t say that. It does tie in with what I wanted to discuss next, though,” Bond says as he moves one hand up Q’s chest and tweaks his nipple.

“Y-yes?”

“Humiliation.”

“That’s a hard limit,” Q says, straightening a bit.

“And I’ll respect it. But I need to understand what you mean. One man’s humiliation is another man’s thrill. To some, being asked to wear lace knickers would be humiliating, whereas you feel sexy in them. And you _are_ ,” Bond assures. “Some people find name-calling or boot-licking to be humiliating, and others find it to be part of play. Help me understand. You’ve been so clear on physical hard limits — what instruments are allowed, marking — but I want to avoid mistakes on the more psychological ones as well. What acts are off-limits? What do you find humiliating?”

Q shakes his head. It’s getting increasingly difficult to think around all the delicious things James is drawing from him, but this is important. “There are no acts that I find humiliating. Or rather, the same acts could feel humiliating or not depending on how they were done.”

“Explain.”

Q takes a few breaths to collect his thoughts. “It’s connected to what I was describing earlier. I sub because I want out of my head and to not have to make decisions, but also to feel… valued. Appreciated. Even if it’s only for a scene. A Dom can ask a lot of me, but I expect _care_ in return. Not… emotion. Just…”

“You’re offering a gift and you want it received in kind.”

Q nods. “So… let’s say you tie me down to something at the club and invite 10 of your closest friends to come on me while you play. If you get me worked up so that I want all the attention… if you tell me I’m allowed to see how many cocks are hard for me, but you’re the only one that gets to touch me, and that they are only allowed to splash their come on me because they don’t _get_ to touch me, but you’re indulging my inner comeslut… every extra cock would feel like you were giving me a gift because of how good I was being for you. But if you take that same exact scenario and say I’m a dirty filthy comeslut that’s not _worthy_ of their touch, just a receptacle for their come…”

“Okay, I see,” Bond says, pulling Q closer and kissing his collarbone as if apologizing for the hypothetical trespass. And Q is soothed, though he has no reason to be upset in the first place.

“Dirty talk, name-calling, teasing, orgasm control… none of that is inherently humiliating. All of it is allowed so long as it’s playful and…”

“Honoring you,” Bond finishes.

“I suppose that’s as good a way as any to put it. And I’ll always honor you in return. You won’t find me eyeing other Doms or whinging at your commands. Though those are expectations at the club. I suppose we’ll have to work out expectations here. And if we go to the Savoy or something, playing in secret is fine, but you can’t ask me to kneel or do something that would be inappropriate to the setting. I wouldn’t be humiliated; I would just safeword and ruin the night.”

“Agreed,” Bond says. “I will never ask you to do something _overt_ that’s inappropriate to the setting."

Q huffs a laugh, “That sounds like a loophole you could drive a lorry through.”

“We’ll clarify the language later,” Bond says, grasping Q’s arse and pulling him forward until his legs are fully splayed and their cocks are pressed together. “You’ve put all these ideas in my head, and I’d already been thinking about this quite a bit. And there are lace knickers to explore… do you have any restraints?” Bond asks, grinding them together again.

“No,” Q whimpers.

“No?”

“No one ever comes _here_ , and I’m not in the habit of tying myself up.”

“Cheeky,” Bond comments, loosening his tie. “Wrists.”

The slide of the silk feels decadent around Q’s wrists, more intimate than the usual restraints.

“Up you come,” Bond says, tugging at the silk and pushing Q’s hip.

He finds his feet. “Where—”

“This table seems nicely sturdy, and just about the right height,” Bond says, stepping around to the other side and pulling meaningfully at the silk until Q allows himself to bend at the hips and drape himself against the wood surface. “Very good,” Bond praises, tying the silk off around one of the table legs and walking back around, dragging a finger along the curve of the table until he’s standing behind Q again. “Yes, this will do nicely.” He closes the tablet cover and sets it on a nearby chair, returning to trace a finger down Q’s spine before resting a hand on the small of his back. “You have no idea how often I've imagined bending you over some wooden surface — though I’d always imagined having to clear more paperwork and bits of tech out of the way.”

Q absolutely does not imagine being pressed into his desk at work. He whimpers as Bond tucks his fingers into the waist of his trousers and pulls them down almost violently, letting them pool around Q’s ankles, exposing his knickers… or a lack of knickers.

“You are deliciously naughty,” Bond comments, tracing along the edge of the open back of Q’s lace knickers from the waist down to where the two sides join just behind Q’s bollocks. He grasps each bare cheek and spreads them, exposing Q’s opening to the cool air of the room. “My god, this arse. I have thought so much about everything I want to do to it. Every way I want to take it. And then you frame it so prettily with black lace… I had no idea it could look even more tempting.”

Q gasps as Bond kneads his arse again, growing more confident and possessive in his motions. “You’ve healed nicely,” Bond adds. “The bruising has completely faded.”

“Yes sir. I was able to sit properly again for the first time yesterday.”

“Hmm. Would you like me to remedy that for you?”

Bond’s voice is low and dangerous in a way that makes something twist behind Q’s navel.

“Yes, sir.”

The waiting is delicious. Q anticipates the sting of Bond’s hand, almost feeling himself sink into the wood of the table in his attempt to raise his arse for the blow. But it doesn’t come. Instead, he hears the unbuckling of a belt, the slide of leather against fabric. And then he feels that leather sliding against _his_ skin, a loop formed by Bond holding the two ends in a fist. It’s still warm from Bond's body.

“Color?”

“Green,” he murmurs, closing his eyes and giving himself over to whatever Bond is going to do.

And it begins. The first strikes are almost gentle, caressing. Q groans into them, savoring the sensual slap and glide of the leather, the sharp sting on his arse, Bond’s other hand resting warmly on the lace just above his arse, as if holding him in place. As the strokes become harder and his skin tingles he sinks deeper into the table, relishing the fact that he can lose himself because he already trusts Bond to understand his limits. Sure enough, just as it starts to feel too much, Bond sets the belt aside and skims his fingers gently over Q’s heated skin.

“The black lace frames the reddened skin very nicely,” Bond comments. “And I could take you just like this, couldn’t I? Leave your hard cock locked away under delicate lace and press into you. Would you like that? You’ve almost invited it.”

Q whimpers, because he _would_ like that. But he also wants to come.

“Perhaps when someone is watching. That sounds like an activity for the club. Kick away your trousers.”

It takes a moment for Q to understand the command, but then he’s awkwardly stepping out of the trousers pooled at his ankles and kicking them away.

“These, too,” Bond orders, slipping the knickers off Q’s hips and cock so that they drop to his ankles. Q kicks them away, bare now except for James’ collar and the silk tie binding his arms. “Bend your knees.”

Q complies, and Bond reaches between his legs and grasps his cock, hard and weeping. He tugs it down and toward him.

“Now straighten your legs.”

Q’s cock is trapped between his thighs now, pointing downward and now accessible, as Bond demonstrates by stroking a thumb over Q’s frenulum, almost making his knees buckle.

“Hmm. Can’t have that.”

Q hears the rustle of cloth and then feels cold leather — his own belt, perhaps — wrapped above his knees and pulled tight.

“There,” Bond says, tying it off. “That should help. Now, I think they’re still protected enough that I can play without doing too much damage.” And with that Q feels the thicker leather of Bond’s belt slide along his thighs, slack and teasing, until it’s pulled taut with a snap, stinging his bollocks and thighs.

“Oh god,” Q moans, arching his back and tilting his arse up.

“You are such a delight,” Bond murmurs, snapping the belt again, this time lower on his thighs and shaft.

It’s more a teasing flick of leather than the bruising blows his arse was taking, but all his nerve-endings light up. It won’t last — he won’t feel this for days — but he feels almost high from it.

Bond snaps the belt taut again. “As much as I plan to put your flexibility to good use eventually, I think I’ll take you just like this: legs together, nice and tight.” He snaps the belt one last time, hard enough it brings tears to Q’s eyes. Then he kneels and Q feels the belt around his ankles, tight and then tied off to the table leg, completing his restraint.

“Lovely,” Bond whispers, possessive hands stroking up Q’s legs, over the belt and up to Q’s arse, spreading it to expose his opening. “There are so many things I want to do to this arse. So many ways I want to spread you and stretch you. I plan to spend _hours_ opening you up and seeing what you can take. But not today, I think.”

Q looks over his shoulder to see Bond reach into his wallet for a packet of lube and a condom. Moments later, a single slick finger tickles Q’s entrance.

“I plan to tease you for hours, keeping you hard and never letting you come,” Bond murmurs roughly, pressing his finger in slowly as Q nearly sobs with relief. ”But not yet,” Bond finishes, twisting his finger and stroking Q’s prostate. Q’s knees buckle, and he mewls as he twists against the table, held in place by the tie around his wrists and the belt at his ankles.

“Today I want you just like this,” Bond says, removing his finger and donning a condom. “Tied to a wooden table with _my_ tie and _my_ belt. Just perfectly...”

The _mine_ is unspoken and premature, but Q suspects they _both_ hear it as Bond presses his cock into Q.

It feels _huge_. In part because of the way Q is positioned and in part because he’s barely been prepared or stretched. But he’s been prepared enough that his body accepts Bond without pain. He just feels incredibly full, as if they’re playing with his size kink without all the work.

He releases a rough breath as Bond pushes in all the way, hips flush with Q’s aching arse and so delightfully deep Q groans. Then Bond shifts his weight, spreading his legs around Q’s arse and leaning forward on the table, and as he starts to pull out the tip of his cock drags across Q’s prostate.

“That’s it, pet,” Bond praises as Q whimpers and twists… and now Q realizes the brilliance of James’ bondage. Because every time he makes even the smallest twist of his body, his thighs squeeze together and rub against his trapped cock. The movements are small — barely a tease — but with all the other stimulation... with the way Bond’s cock strokes his prostate with _every_ thrust, it all builds in intensity until the sensitive skin of Q’s reddened arse is bombarded with stimulation… even the way that the edge of the table digs into his hips, forming another bruise he’ll feel for days…

He’s nearly there, hands grasping the silk binding him to the table as he tries to memorize every sensation. And then Bond reaches a hand to caress Q’s collar, the one bit of leather he’d nearly forgotten about.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he praises, and Q cries out and comes, feeling it drip warm and thick between his thighs. “That’s it, pet… oh, Christ, that’s…” Three more hard thrusts and Bond stills over him, his cock pulsing deep within Q. And everything is quiet but for their breathing.

Q is barely aware as James pulls out and goes to the kitchen, rifling through drawers until he finds a towel he can dampen and clean Q with. The belts are released, and then the tie is cut, Q having pulled at it far too hard for it to be untied again. Q is wrapped in a blanket off the back of the sofa and settled on Bond’s lap, and is allowed to sit with his face buried against Bond’s neck as fingers comb through his damp curls.

He has no idea how long they sit there, but he slowly becomes aware that his skin is cooling. He resists coming out of subspace until he actually shivers, and Bond’s arms tighten around him and he feels a kiss on his brow.

“Well, I daresay that was a success.” He hears Bond’s voice low and rumbly through his chest, and if he weren’t so spent it would probably make him hard. Q just nods against James’ shoulder in response. “Time to get dressed, pet,” James says, fingering the buckle of Q’s collar.

Q buries his face against Bond’s neck and makes a protesting sound.

“We need to finalize the language of the contract and sign it so I can move in and we can do this again,” James says. “And we can’t do any of that when you’re naked and wearing my collar. We need the power balance restored before we conduct final negotiations and sign.”

“It’s the one thing that will force me to drag myself off your lap,” Q murmurs, sitting up so James can remove the collar.

“Good pet,” he says, kissing the skin of Q’s throat as he removes the collar.

He tells Bond to make himself at home for a few minutes and excuses himself to his bedroom, where he takes a quick shower and changes into fresh clothes. When he returns, Bond has gotten dressed and cleared away Q’s old clothes and poured them both a scotch. It takes only a half-hour to finalize the contract and sign it after giving James a tour of the flat.

“I’ll take this down to the club and have them hold a copy for safekeeping,” James says as he gets ready to leave. “I’ll bring some boxes by tomorrow, but it may take me a few days to move in completely. I don’t have a lot, but it’s not well organized. And I may want to bring some of my kitchen supplies.

“Whatever you need to make it feel like home,” Q agrees.

And it’s done. As James waves goodbye to Q from the door, Q realizes he isn’t entirely sure what he’s signed up for, but he hasn’t felt this excited for a very long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much thanks to Mid and Dart for betaing, and everyone who's commented. I appreciate it so. I've put a few headcanons from this 'verse in a companion fic (https://archiveofourown.org/works/25084426/chapters/60763702). Many are from non-Q POV, just to mix it up a bit. 
> 
> We've just about gotten through the set-up for this fic, and now that James and Kerr have finished their negotiations... we can start to have some fun.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

It takes three days for Bond to move the things in from his flat and start sleeping in the spare room.

James’ room, Q reminds himself.

It takes one night of sleeping on the bed in the spare room — James’ room — for James to insist he’ll be replacing it. After a brief conversation about what he’s allowed to do to the walls (It’s _your_ room, James… do what you will. Unless you intend to remove a supporting wall, I’m not bothered), James decides to replace all the furniture, paint, and expand the closet. Q comes home late Wednesday night after a shitshow of a mission with 004 to find Bond building a platform bed from a kit in his room, a separate, thick, upholstered headboard already bolted to the wall above.

“You’ve been busy,” he comments at James’ door.

“Not as busy as you, apparently. There’s left-over chicken in the fridge. Can I warm some for you?”

“Bath first,” Q says, moving down the hall and closing the door to his suite. He emerges a half-hour later feeling significantly more human if no less tired. He wanders to the kitchen in sleep pants and a Doves tee to find Bond plating up some dinner for him.

“I don’t think I can eat that much,” Q says, “but it smells delicious.”

“Eat what you can,” James says. “So, it was bad?”

Q nods as he takes his first bite. “He’s going to live. He’s in a hospital in Germany. The data’s in the wind, though, and I can’t even think of the work it will be to find another lead. And M might kill him when he gets back on British soil anyway.”

“Did he make a mistake?”

Q shrugs and swallows his food. “It was mostly bad luck. Though I daresay you would have gotten out of it, even if you blew up a city block in the process. Come to think of it, I’m not sure which fallout I’d rather deal with.”

James huffs a laugh. It’s the self-deprecating little smirk he makes as he looks away. Q’s seen it a few times and is fairly certain it’s genuine… not a front or an act. Even with the short amount of extra time they’ve spent together, Q is starting to see James differently. He doesn’t keep up his 007 persona when he’s home, just like Q drops the Quartermaster. They are not quite comfortable with each other yet in these stripped-down versions of themselves, but it’s been surprisingly easy.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” James asks as Q leans back in the chair and realizes that he _has_ finished his chicken and mushrooms.

“Hmm. Well, it’s tempting to ask you to tie me down to something and fuck me, but I’m honestly not sure I could stay awake. And I just ate.”

Bond barks a laugh. “I’m quite confident I could find ways to keep you awake for as long as I deemed it desirable,” he says in a teasing, mildly threatening way that causes a small fissure of excitement to travel up Q’s spine. “But I’m not sure it’s a good idea. What time do you have to be in tomorrow?”

“Budget meeting at nine,” Q mutters, dropping his head to the table. “I should probably make myself some tea and go over the numbers one more time.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” Bond insists. “You finalized that report last night. You’re ready. And after today’s mission, you’d be excused if you weren’t.” Bond is silent for a moment… long enough for Q to look up, concerned, to find James tilting his head and studying him. “Can you fall asleep now?”

“Probably not. My mind is still going over the mission.”

“If I weren’t here, what would you do to relax enough to fall asleep? Watch television?”

Q shakes his head. “Yoga probably. I carry the tension in my shoulders.”

“Do that, and I’ll wash up.”

Q considers arguing. He considers moving to the gym to practice in peace. But instead, he retrieves his yoga mat, turns on some music, and starts his routine in the sitting room. He’s rather self-conscious at first, but then as he starts to get into the flow and the rhythm of it, he forgets he might have an audience. He enters an almost trance-like state as he stretches and bends. It’s not as good as subspace, but it calms him in a similar way. By the time he finishes in Child’s Pose, his muscles are loose and he feels warm and relaxed and ready for sleep. He sits up to find Bond watching him from the hall, sipping a scotch.

“Better?” James asks.

“Yes. Were you watching the whole time?”

“No. I washed up the kitchen and then finished making up my new bed. But I caught enough to see you’re quite proficient. It explains a lot about your lithe strength. Not to mention… flexibility…” Bond takes another sip of his scotch, his expression contemplative. “I need to go in early in the morning, too. Shall I drive us both?”

Q calculates that he can sleep an extra half hour if he rides in with Bond. “That would be lovely,” he agrees.

The rest of the week is much the same: stressful and long and mostly good at work, largely domestic at home, with Bond’s possessions finding their way into the kitchen, sitting room, gym, guest bathroom, and of course James’ room. Q drags himself home late on Friday night to find James watching a film on the sofa, cleaning his guns. This is what domesticity looks like when you live and work with a spy.

Q finds he quite likes it.

He sheds his coat and flops down on the sofa beside James without a word. After a few moments, James hands him a tumbler of scotch and a bowl of popcorn. He falls asleep halfway through _Winter Soldier_ and wakes at two in the morning alone on the sofa with a blanket thrown over him. He pads down the hall to his bedroom and doesn’t dream.

The next morning he wakes up late, stumbling into the kitchen to make toast and tea. Bond is showered and dressed and reading a paper, greeting Q as he comes in and smiling when he only gets a grunt in return.

When Q has made his second cup of tea and scrolled through the news on his tablet, Bond folds the paper and leans forward. “I’d like to take you to the club tonight, if you don’t have other plans.”

Q freezes for a moment and then finishes chewing his bite of toast so he can answer. “I don’t have other plans. That… yes, okay.”

“I’ll want to collar you before we leave,” Bond says.

“Why?” Q asks before he can stop himself.

“Because I intend to fondle you in the car on the way over, and I’m only allowed to do that if you’re collared.”

Q swallows thickly and feels his cock twitch.

“I’d also prefer if you didn’t wank over the course of the day, though clearly I can’t command you when you aren’t collared.”

Bond’s been thinking about this, Q realizes. Has a plan. And that’s both exciting and a bit… well, he needs to catch up.

“When would you like to leave?”

“Oh, early I think. Just after dark, maybe?”

Q nods. “And… what should I wear?”

“Clubwear,” James answers.

“I know, but… I’m still not clear on your taste and we’ll be entering the club with me already wearing your collar—”

“And on my lead.”

_Fuck._ Q adjusts himself. “And on your lead. I should be wearing something you approve.”

Bond tilts his head. “Nothing that can’t be replaced easily. I may be rough. Why don’t you select three choices and I’ll decide among those?”

Q nods, mind already tallying options.

“I wouldn’t say ‘no’ to stockings,” Bond says, opening the paper again as if there’s still news he hasn’t read more important than the news he’s just given Q. “And I like the Docs, but maybe footwear that isn’t quite so... clunky.”

“And lace?” Q asks.

“I’m not averse to a bit of lace,” Bond answers from behind the paper.

The day seems incredibly long while passing incredibly quickly. He starts in the gym, taking a nice long run to work off some of the energy he feels and warm himself up. He practices yoga, the routine emphasizing stretch and relaxation rather than strength. By the time he’s done all that, he knows what clothing options to offer Bond. He lays them out on the sofa, suggesting that Bond should feel free to mix and match amongst the offerings. He catches the heat in Bond’s eyes before retreating to his suite to prepare.

He spends much longer than he normally would cleaning and grooming himself. In part, it’s because he wants to be at his best, and in part because he finds the process enjoyable and relaxing. He does _not_ wank — though he’s sorely tempted — and he’s relieved when he finds a steaming plate of scrambled eggs for his late lunch outside his door along with Bond’s selections for his apparel. The meal is perfect… light and full of protein. Bond is already taking care of him, it seems.

He knows how to finish his preparations now that he’s seen what clubwear Bond chose: neither the most masculine nor most feminine of the options Q laid out, combining leather and lace and mesh in a way that will read a bit androgynous. He likes it, and he knows how to complement it. He decides he won’t need to read, so he doesn’t bother with contacts. That means he can use the charcoal with a bit of sparkle around his eyes without risking irritation. He doesn’t wear any other makeup… trusting that he’ll be biting his lips enough to redden them and he doesn’t want anything in Bond’s way, so to speak.

The black, laced-top mesh stockings barely peek out above his thigh-high flat boots. The shirt is a different, coarser mesh, the neck wide enough (and stretched enough) that it slips off his shoulder when tugged. Q wants to see it with the wide, dark collar he assumes Bond will be using on him. He slips on the arse-less knickers, not unlike the ones he wore on signing day, but a deep red rather than black. The lace sits on his hip bone and the straps in the back tug at him as he moves, as if trying to spread his arse just a bit. He adjusts his cock so he’ll be reasonably comfortable in the tight lace as he hardens. He pulls the leather shorts over this, the low-rise allowing just a bit of the lace to show above, the legs cut short enough that Bond will have some access without removing them.

He inspects himself in the mirror, turning to the side, bending over to touch his toes, both to ensure his muscles are remaining limber and to make sure nothing binds or pinches as he shifts into even challenging positions. He doesn’t know what Bond plans, but he expects Bond will find Q’s limits now that he has some sense of where they are and the right under the contract to push them.

Q’s cock twitches at that.

He looks good, he decides. He could definitely pull a Dom in this outfit if he wanted to.

But he doesn’t. He wants to make Bond pleased and proud. He wants any Dom watching them to be envious. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly, excitement building. He hears Bond preparing in his own bathroom and it focuses him.

Twenty minutes later he’s in the kitchen leaning against the counter when Bond comes in.

“Good _god_ , you’re perfect,” Bond says, looking him up and down. Q turns to face him, flexing his hands. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

Bond frowns. That’s a bad start.

“I’m just not sure how you expect me to behave. When we go in, should I kneel? Should I be kneeling now?”

“You’re not even collared now,” Bond says, approaching Q.

“I know. I’ve just never gone into the club already collared before, but I’ve _seen_ it. I’ve seen what some Dom’s want, and we’ve never talked about it. We’ve talked about everything else, but—”

“Q… Kerr,” Bond says, placing a hand on Q’s neck. “You’re overthinking this.”

“I am? I do tend to do that sometimes…”

“I know. And it can be good… keeps us all alive for one thing. But it’s also why you like to relax by being a sub.”

That’s true. Q takes a steadying breath and nods.

“Just stay focused on me, like you did at the party. I’ll tell you what I want. I’m not going to try to trick you. I’m no more into punishment than you are.”

“Okay.” Q nods.

Bond watches him for a moment and seems satisfied. “May I?” he asks, holding up the collar.

“Please.”

“I like the charcoal,” Bond comments, fastening the buckle.

“Good.”

“And as for the rest… you look delicious. And I intend to show you off. Not until we get there, though.” He holds Q’s long trench coat for him to don, buttons it for him, and ties the belt. “Nearly presentable,” Bond says, looking down to see that the coat covers the top of the boots. He takes a muffler from the hook. “Need to cover that collar until we’re in the car,” he says, forming a loop, wrapping it around Q’s neck, and pulling the ends through to form a loose knot. He spreads the soft wool gently to cover the leather, stepping back to admire his work. “Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

Q enjoys the secret nature of it: appearing more or less normal from the outside as they walk down the street, but knowing what he’s wearing under the coat and scarf. Knowing that _Bond_ is aware as well — that it’s a secret they share and keep from the world.

It excites him in a completely different way from his normal anticipation of attending the club. As Bond opens the door for him and helps him into the passenger seat, it feels _almost_ like a date.

Until Bond gets in and closes the door and says, “Remove the scarf,” before he’s even started the car.

Q does so, aware as James looks over at the collar with satisfaction.

“Open your coat,” Bond orders, turning the car onto the A200. As they settle into traffic on a straight away, Q has the bulky coat folded away and Bond is free to explore. And he does. It starts with teasing at the edge of his boots, just above his knee, then moves up to the lace edging of his stocking. Bond’s fingers trace higher, skimming the edge of his leather shorts and then slipping underneath. “Spread your legs.”

It’s a teasing, torturous twenty minutes, Bond’s explorations only interrupted when his hand moves competently to the gearshift, which is appealing in a wholly different way. By the time they reach the club and park, Q is panting and _hard_ , and Bond looks quite pleased with himself. Q rebuttons the coat for their short walk to the club, but likes the way Bond glances at the collar too much to cover it again.

The lobby is surprisingly crowded as they enter and check their coats. Bond fishes a short lead from the duffle before they enter the main club. Their eyes meet as he clicks it in place, and the heat in Bond’s expression is almost enough to make Q’s knees weak.

“Ready?”

“Yes, sir.”

With a gentle tug of the lead, they’re in. Bond takes them to the bar first and orders a scotch, clipping the handle of the lead to a carabiner on his belt loop, freeing up his hands while keeping Q’s possession clear to any onlookers. Q waits with downcast eyes, still turned to the room as Bond chats with the bartender. Bond’s hand continues to skim Q’s form possessively as he talks. To anyone else, the way Bond casually traces the line of Q’s erection might look absent-minded, but Q knows better. He’s halfway to subspace and Bond hasn’t even undressed him yet. And Bond _knows_.

“Richard!” one of the other Doms greets, and Bond turns to meet him as Q makes sure his face is downcast.

“Marcus. It’s been a while,” Bond says, shaking his hand, but staying close enough to Q that the boffin can read his body language in his peripheral vision.

“And what’s this?”

“New sub,” Bond answers. “I found him at the Halloween party.”

“You entered a contract?” Q doesn’t need to see the man’s face to know he’s surprised.

Bond shrugs. “Seemed time for a change, and I was intrigued. He proved delightfully… resilient.”

“Did he, now?”

“Yes, and an interesting challenge as well. Watch. Would you like some, pet?” Bond’s voice lowers for the last sentence, and Q turns his head toward Bond to find he’s dipped two fingers in his scotch and is holding them out for Q.

Q opens his mouth and meets Bond’s amused gaze. Bond slips his fingers past Q’s lips, and Q sucks. It’s good scotch, but Bond raises an eyebrow. Not what he was hoping for, it seems.

Bond dips his fingers in the scotch and holds them out again, and this time Q closes his eyes and slides his mouth down all the way to the knuckles, humming.

“Bloody hell,” Marcus mutters as Bond chuckles.

“Yes, he’s quite the little minx. He wasn’t nearly so cheeky by the time I was done with him,” Bond observes, tweaking Q’s nipple through the mesh shirt and making Q whimper as he resumed his position: eyes down, hands clasped behind his back.

“He’s very pretty. Need any help with him tonight?” Marcus asks, adjusting himself.

Bond tilts his head. “For logistics, perhaps, if you aren’t otherwise occupied. We have alcove six reserved in about forty minutes, and I have some specialized equipment to deploy. I could use a hand, but…”

“Say no more. He’s your new toy. I don’t expect to feed him any... _scotch_.” The man takes a sip of his drink as James chuckles. “I’m going to have a look around, but I’ll check back in with you.” He slips away through the crowd.

“Have you used him before?” Bond asks softly.

Q glances up at the retreating Dom, not recognizing the olive-skinned man. “No, sir.”

“Good,” Bond murmurs. “He _is_ a good Dom....”

“A friend of yours?” Q whispers.

“Probably much in the same way Sally is your friend. We’ve shared scenes before… supported each other’s scenes, really... but I’d only involve him if you didn’t already have a dynamic with him. Let’s see who else is here.”

Walking around the club on Bond’s lead is a completely different experience from walking around hoping to attract a Dom. He can feel the gazes follow them. Rather than speculative, they are appreciative. Having the hottest Dom in the room claim you as his sub has that effect. Q feels sexy and desirable.

And Bond doesn’t allow anyone to wonder, frequently stopping to chat with some Dom or another while fondling Q, making sure he stays hard, securing his wrists behind him with leather restraints — at one point as he’s chatting he fishes a pair of nipple clamps out of the duffle and slides his hands under Q’s mesh shirt to fasten them. The pinch and the glint of shining metal through the black mesh leave Q rather breathless. Bond continues to walk him around, playing with the clamps, teasing his cock so much that Q’s surprised the leaking precome hasn’t darkened the leather. Q stops trying to follow the conversations or glean hints from them of what Bond has planned for him. Almost stops deciphering words at all, letting the low rumble of voices wash over him and mingle with the pants and sighs and cries beginning to emanate from the rest of the room.

“Pet?”

Q’s attention snaps back where it belongs. “Sir?”

“Time to get you the rest of the way out of your head.”

“Yes, sir.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm finally starting to incorporate some of the prompts I received from my collab table.  
> This chapter will cover two: Trust Kink ("Anything where one person is trying something they're nervous about"), and Orgasm Denial and Praise.
> 
> Thanks to Mid and Dart for betaing, and to all of you who are reading and commenting.

Bond leads him to the same alcove they used during the party. This time a heavy table stands in the center of the alcove. Bond walks him to the front of the table, removes the carabiner connecting his wrist restraints behind his back, removes his shirt and nipple clamps, and finally unbuttons his shorts and lets the leather drop, revealing Q’s cock straining against the red lace. By now they have an audience. And a helper. Marcus is in the corner of the alcove sorting equipment on a small table.

“Turn around, pet,” Bond says, moving him so his bare arse is facing the crowd. “And over you go,” Bond continues, pulling on the lead until Q’s chest is pressed against the wood and tying it off on one of the hooks. His wrists are secured to the table as well, and then a new restraint is fastened to each ankle over his boots and his legs are spread and secured to the table legs. Wide, but not much of a stretch for Q.

“That’s a nice view,” Q hears Marcus comment as he brings over a small tray.

Bond removes something from it. “He has a lovely arse,” Bond agrees, spreading Q’s cheeks to expose his opening to the audience. “It starts out so prim and tight, but it can take a pounding.”

And with that, Bond starts to open him in earnest. The first two toys are easy, but by the third, Q is groaning and squirming against his restraints. As it slides into place, Bond praises him with a “That’s a good lad.” To Marcus he adds, “Let’s keep him with this one for a moment and let him adjust… hand me my paddle?”

Bond isn’t checking colors as he did in their first scene. He knows Q’s limits, is learning his body language. The toy starts to vibrate and Q groans, letting the stimulation wash over him. The first strike of the paddle drives it deeper and spreads warmth all over his skin, and Q’s mind drifts. He’s not sure how long it is before the paddling stops and a new toy is worked into him, but he can tell they are getting bigger...

“Just one more, pet. Nearly done. You’re doing so well but I don’t want to stop yet. The last one is quite special.”

Q murmurs a quiet “green” and melts deeper into himself. Bond works it in slowly, teasing Q’s cock as he goes to keep his pleasure in line with any new pain from the stretch. As it slides into place he hears Marcus’s low whistle amongst Bond’s praise.

“Alright, up you come, pet.”

Q slowly realizes that the restraints are no longer connected to the table.

“I want you to kneel up here, facing the room.”

Q had almost forgotten about the room. He climbs up onto the table noticing that they’ve attracted quite a crowd. Bond is organizing something composed of leather straps — a harness, maybe — while Marcus once again has his back to them, organizing other tools on the tray.

“Arms through here, pet,” Bond says, slipping the straps over Q’s head and down his torso. “And knees apart. I like seeing your cock strain against your pretty knickers.”

Q complies, allowing Bond to position him and secure the harness. He’s vaguely aware of the straps crisscrossing his shoulders, sternum, chest, hips, thighs… it’s intricate and will distribute his weight evenly while leaving easy access to the areas Bond has the most interest in. Additional straps are connected from his outer thigh to a central loop at the small of his back, holding his knees spread. His ankles are connected to his thigh cuffs, rendering his legs spread wide but tucked neatly out of Bond’s way. His wrists are similarly secured to the center strap running along his spine. When Bond is done, Q feels spread wide, exposed, and helpless. And also, oddly safe, as Bond checks all the straps. When he’s satisfied, he confirms with Q that everything feels tight but not pinching and then moves to the wall and retrieves a remote, pressing a button to lower the suspension equipment.

It’s not a setup Q’s seen before. It looks to be an actual motorized gear at the end of the chain, with a length of heavy-duty bicycle chain looped through it with a carabiner at each end. Bond tests the gear with a joystick on the remote, rotating it forward and then back until the one carabiner is much higher than the other. He attaches the high one to a loop on Q’s harness just below the nape of his neck, between his shoulder blades. He attaches the other end to a loop on the harness near Q’s tailbone and then checks everything.

“Okay,” Bond says when he’s satisfied. “I’d tell you to hang on, but I don’t think you can.” And with that, Q feels the entire apparatus lift, slowly bearing his weight, tilting him slightly forward as he’s lifted off the table, swaying slightly.

“Nearly perfect,” Bond says, adjusting the gear again so Q’s torso is almost upright.

Q is dazedly taking stock of this new restraint system as Bond and Marcus move the wooden table out of the way. He tests if he has _any_ freedom of movement other than his head — not bloody much as it turns out — when he feels the snap of the crop against his thigh, just above the lace. Q’s attention refocuses on Bond just as the crop descends on his nipple, making him twist and gasp. The movement sets him swaying slightly where he dangles from the ceiling, but Bond’s precision with the crop is unaffected. Bond actually pushes at his knee to set him slowly rotating, landing the crop on Q’s nipple, thigh, and arse as he slowly spins. Q is lost in sensation again, no longer trying to analyze the suspension system, when the toy his arse buzzes to life. He groans and arches looking for Bond, who lands another precise blow on the lace strap of Q’s knickers. Bond drags the end of the crop along Q’s lace-covered erection, tapping at the end as Q whimpers.

“As pretty as they are,” Bond says, setting the crop down and approaching Q’s swinging form, drawing his fingers along either side of cock, “I’m afraid they’re in my way.” And with that, he digs his fingers into the lace and tears it like so much tissue paper.

It should not be so bloody hot, but Q has long ago learned not to judge such things.

Bond wads up the ruined lace and sets it on the small table Marcus has returned. The sensation of having his heavy cock finally free almost prevents Q from noticing Marcus adjust himself. Which distracts him from noticing what Bond is holding now. Not a crop: the black handle has a glowing glass tube protruding and an electrical cord dragging behind it.

“Your limits didn’t say anything about these,” Bond says quietly as he approaches. “But you didn’t raise an issue when I included them in my options. Have you used them before?”

Q shakes his head, swallowing thickly. A sensation that might actually be fear crawls up his spine. He’s always been curious about violet wands, but never trusted anyone enough to let them try.

But he trusts Bond. Even from the very beginning of their work relationship. More than was ever reasonable based on logic. And after the scene at the party… well, there are rewards in trusting Bond.

“Am I going to like it?”

Bond’s mouth quirks a pleased smile. “I think you’re going to _love_ it. I think you’re going to have a very hard time not coming.”

Q’s cock twitches before he can respond, and Bond grins, but he doesn’t get closer. “I need a color, pet.”

“I trust you,” Q says instead.

Bond’s expression changes for just a moment, something serious and slightly startled crossing it before the Dom persona snaps back into place. “We’ll start slowly.”

The first touch of the violet wand on his inner thigh causes more of a startle then pain, but he still twitches away from it.

“Color?”

“Green, sir.” Though it sounds a bit like a question to his own ear.

Slowly, Bond explores his reactions, tapping the electrode on Q’s hip, side, bicep, nipple, navel…

And _god_ it’s intense. Q pants and twists in his restraints and cries out with every touch. He’s sure he doesn’t like it, except that he quickly starts anticipating the touches, feeling disappointed when they're delayed. He finds himself murmuring “green” and “please” whenever Bond pauses. At some point the pain doesn’t register at all, leaving only the rush and the giddy aftermath of endorphins. Q’s skin is positively _alight,_ and he doesn’t want it to stop. He has no idea how long they’ve been at it, but he’s hard and leaking and every time the wand comes close to his cock, he has to bite his lip to keep his control.

Bond sees it. Backs off just a bit and then teases him again. “That’s a good pet. You’re not going to come yet, are you? I still have so much to explore.”

Q whimpers and has no idea how much more he can take, but he shakes his head, because, no, he’s not going to come until Bond tells him he can. Not on their first _real_ scene since he’s been collared. He feels like a junkie on edge for his next hit but not allowed to give himself over to the bliss, but there’s an appeal to the struggle.

And Bond is skilled. Good at finding that edge and taking Q right up to it, and then leaving him there long enough that Q becomes habituated to the stimulation and is no longer right at the edge. It’s decadent and delicious and Q wants it to last all night, though his voice is growing hoarse.

“You ready for more, pet?” Bond asks.

Q opens his eyes and assesses himself. “Please,” Q pants, and is rewarded when the toy in his arse, which has been vibrating throughout the session, begins pulsing with ripples of electrical stimulation as well.

Wave after wave hit his senses, both deep within him and skipping across his skin like pebbles on a lake. His muscles tense and twist, and through it all a low build of something behind his navel. Not the usual hot build toward orgasm. More like the low rumble of an impending avalanche…

He sways slightly as he sags against the restraints, nerves still popping in the aftermath of the latest bout. He feels wrung out, hoarse, and still wanting more.

“What do you think?” he hears Bond asks, and murmurs, “Green.”

Marcus answers, “He fucking loves it. Bloody hell, look at his _cock_. He can take more if you switch to a more diffuse electrode.”

“I know just the one,” Bond says, adjusting himself.

Q licks his lips, suddenly wanting to know just how hard this is making Bond… any of them, but especially Bond. He glances out at their audience, seeing various Doms teasing their subs as they watch… pinching… palming…

He cries out as a jolt tingles along his bollocks. Focusing on Bond, he sees this new electrode forms a T, but with an upward arc that can trace along a curve and subject a swath of skin to stimulation, not just a point. It would feel less intense if it weren’t almost overwhelming.

“Hold him steady,” Bond commands, and warm hands grasp his hips, keeping him firmly in place and open as Bond paints his bollocks with electricity again. And again. And then the wand moves to his shaft and—

“Oh, sir… too close. I’m… I won’t be able to…”

He can’t even finish the sentence before he’s swinging freely again, spinning actually, and he hears the motor come to life and his shoulders tip to the floor. He’s parallel to the floor when he’s stopped with a fist in his hair and a cock in his mouth.

“Take it, pet,” Bond grunts as he presses in.

Q is relieved to finally have some semblance of an active role, sucking and shifting his head to let Bond in deeper, moaning around Bond’s cock as warm hands return to his arse and press the toy in deeper.

“That’s it. You like getting it from both ends, don’t you? My pretty little cockslut… enjoy it while you can because I’m going to _devastate_ your arse.”

Q barely holds on with the overload of stimulation. He doesn’t get this often, and _fuck_ he does like it… dirty talk and all.

And then everything’s gone and he’s spinning again, completely adrift until the toy is pulled from him and a cock thrust in.

He gasps as he adjusts to the sudden intrusion, and then Bond sets a rapid pace… not of thrusting into Q so much as pulling Q’s suspended form up and down onto his cock.

“Get it ready… the ring,” Bond commands, and Q doesn’t know what that means, but realizes that his shoulders are tilting up again, allowing him to see their audience once more, changing the angle of Bond’s thrusts until—

“There it is,” Bond murmurs against Q’s ear as he cries out. “We’ll just stop it right _there_ , shall we?”

Q just moans in pleasure as Bond grips his hips and slows his thrusts so the tip of his cock drags across Q’s prostate on every thrust.

“Christ, you’re perfect. So fucking tight and hot and willing to take _anything_. So good for me. Ready for more?”

Q can’t imagine what more there could be until he sees Marcus approach with the violet wand. This time, the electrode has a loop at the end. He can guess what it’s meant to slip over.

“I won’t be able to… I’ll come,” Q warns.

“And I’ll be inside you,” Bond whispers. “You’ve done so well. Been so good for me. But it’s time. Don’t hold back. Let me feel everything. Let them see _everything_.”

It’s not as strong as the previous electrodes, but it’s all focused inward on his cock as Marcus slips it over the head and slides it up and down. Q howls and thrashes in Bond’s arms.

“Oh, I feel it too. That is _exquisite_.” Bond’s thrusts quicken and deepen and Q gives himself over, arches back against Bond, feels his whole body tighten until he’s almost breathless.

And then he’s there. The quake that’s been building for god knows how long rumbles through him and spills out amidst cries and thrusts as Bond fucks him through the wave, finally stilling with a low moan himself.

And the wand is gone and Marcus is gone and all that’s left is Bond’s breath and the creak of the harness.

He winces when Bond pulls out. “Shh. I’ll take care of you,” Bond whispers.

He’s barely aware as they bring the table back over and lower the suspension gear. He’s still so sensitive as Bond gets him free of the harness and cleans him up, nerves popping and tingling in the wake of the cloth. Like little tremors in the aftermath of an earthquake. He lets them wash through him as he’s repositioned to sitting on the table, focused more inward than outward until his knees are pushed gently apart. Q whimpers and tries to pull away as his prick is fondled.

“Easy pet. Let him see. He’s a physician. Needs to look you over for damage. Club rules.”

Q opens a bleary eye and watches Marcus examine the skin on his inner thighs, bollocks, and prick almost clinically.

“He’s good,” Marcus declares. “You could use welt salve if he’s irritated later, but he should recover on his own in a day or two.”

“Perfect,” James says. “And thanks for your assistance.”

“It was my pleasure. Now to go find someone to work _this_ off with,” he says, palming his bulge and waving his goodbye, cheerfully.

“How are you, pet?” James asks quietly, smoothing Q’s curls off his brow.

“Floaty, sir.”

James smirks. “Just what I was going for. Do you want to stay, or head back to the flat?”

“I want to climb into your lap for a while. Where am I allowed to do that?”

Bond digs a silk robe out of his duffle and helps Q into it. It’s short, like the black one James used before, but shaped more like a kimono and featuring a green geometric pattern. It skims the top of his stockings as he stands and Bond ties the belt, looking him over.

“You look well-fucked,” Bond compliments, reattaching the lead to Q’s collar.

Q’s prick offers a feeble twitch as Bond tugs to make him follow.

They settle in one of the oversized club chairs, Bond pulling Q sideways onto his lap and allowing him to snuggle against Bond’s chest.

He drifts, tuning out the sounds of the club and focusing on Bond’s warmth and scent and the muffled sound of his heartbeat. Bond makes him sip some water, but then allows him to turn inward again, petting him lightly on his curls, his shoulder, his spine. Q isn’t sure how much time has passed when he hears a quiet, “open your mouth, pet” and is rewarded with a spoon full of chocolate mousse.

Bond feeds him the entire dessert and even offers a sip of his scotch. By the end, Q feels happy and sated in every way. He’s just starting to wonder whether Bond is feeling the same or will expect a second round when Bond kisses the top of his head and tells him to get up. They make their way to the lobby, where Bond collects their things and wraps Q back up in his long coat without actually putting on any proper clothes. During the drive back, Bond lays a possessive hand on Q’s thigh beneath the coat but is undemanding. He seems pleased and sated himself.

Bond ushers Q back up to the flat, and then inside, removing his coat and hanging it for him, and then walking him all the way to the door of the master suite. Stopping, he turns to Q and gently removes the collar, kissing the skin that has been hidden all evening.

“Thank you, Kerr, for a lovely evening.”

Q nods and smiles and goes into his room, closing the door behind him and resting against it.

He feels oddly naked without the collar, but that’s not what surprises him. It’s that even with all the electrical stimulation he experienced tonight, the only skin that currently burns is where Bond kissed his bare neck.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter will cover the prompt "blindfold" from my collab table.
> 
> Thanks to Mid and Dart for betaing, and to all of you who are reading and commenting.

It’s perfect. It’s _bloody_ perfect for two whole weeks. Bond masterminds incredible scenes for the weekends using the heavy, dungeon-like furniture of the basement level for one, and for the other, just stretching him with toys for an hour, opening him further than Q had ever been opened, until he was nearly sobbing, he was so full. He was finally allowed to come while Bond took his mouth, the toy in him so large every aftershock was equal parts bliss and agony.

It was heaven. And Q was only moderately sore the next day, Bond being such an experienced Dom that he managed it all without so much as a bruise.

During the week, about every three days, Q comes home to find his collar waiting beside his dinner plate. By the time they've made it through their third week living together, Q has been tied down, spanked, and fucked against every piece of furniture in the sitting room, dining room, gym, and office. And it would have included the kitchen, but Q protested that it was too unsanitary.

Q is wonderfully satisfied, fortunate that so far Bond has only been sent on short overnight missions. He’s amazed that Bond almost seems to be able to read his mind, know when he’s too tired from work to play, and know when he’s fed up enough from work that he _needs_ to play.

At least Bond seems able to read his mind until he isn’t. Q comes home Friday night, sure that Bond will have an amazing scene planned, or maybe a trip to the club. Instead, he walks in to find something simmering on the stovetop and Bond already changed into sleep trousers and a tee, lounging on the sofa, halfway through a film.

“There’s dal, if you’re peckish,” Bond calls to Q without looking up.

Q recognizes that the wave of disappointment he feels is completely unfair. It’s been a hard week for Bond, too. He just returned from Amsterdam late last night.

“I think I’ll just have a bath,” Q calls back, making his way back to his suite. The one part of the flat James isn’t allowed in.

He tries to be reasonable. Tries to tell himself that a bath is just as good a way to put the day behind him as an hour or two in subspace.

The thing is, after nearly three weeks of having a resident Dom, he knows better. And it’s utterly unfair to expect Bond to read his mind, even if he seems pretty damn good at it. So Q finishes his bath, puts on his big-boy sleep pants, finds the leather collar in the entry-table drawer, and approaches Bond in the sitting room, determined to actually _ask_ for what he needs.

Bond sees the collar and freezes, a whisky tumbler halfway to his mouth. “I’m sorry, Kerr. I’m not sure I have it in me to run a scene…”

“It’s okay. I don’t need much. Just… it will help me leave the mission behind me if I can just have it on for a while. I can just kneel while you watch your film. Or… I don’t know. It’s fine if you don’t want to, but you said to communicate my nee—”

“Come here,” Bond says, his voice going soft, accepting the collar. “Take your shirt off.”

Bond unbuckles the collar as Q peels the tee off, leaving him bare except the sleep pants low on his hips. He bends down so Bond can fasten the collar — something that’s feeling increasingly comforting as time goes on — and then starts to kneel.

“No, up here, pet,” James says, lounging sideways on the sofa. He had been lying on his side, legs bent and together, but now he raises the top leg so the knee is toward the ceiling, and pats the inner thigh of his lower leg, inviting Q to use it as a pillow. Q climbs onto the sofa, ready to settle in and watch a film he doesn’t particularly care about with Bond. “Other way, pet,” Bond commands, making Q freeze. “Facing me. That’s it,” Bond encourages as Q settles with his face mere inches from Bond’s crotch. “You can keep this warm for me while I watch the film.” He pushes the elastic of his trousers down and grasps his flaccid prick, tapping it against Q’s lips. “Open up for me, pet. No sucking. I want to watch the end of this.”

Q has never done this, but he quickly decides he likes it. It’s _hard._ He wants so badly to turn James on. He’s learned a lot of what his Dom likes, but always looks forward to another opportunity to learn. To tease James’ cock and make it weep before James takes control of the situation. Holding Bond’s cock in his mouth but not trying to tempt it is... difficult, but also comforting. It’s warm and large and Bond’s musky scent is all around him, and he’s able to focus on Bond alone, despite the explosions on the telly behind him.

Of course, sometimes he has to swallow. It makes Bond grunt and murmur “minx” as his cock twitches in Q’s mouth. It happens time and time again, until Bond isn’t actually flaccid anymore. Finally, he says, “Go on, pet. Suck me off nice and slow. You're too damned enticing for me to feign disinterest. This is what I get for having such a beautiful, talented pet.”

Q blushes, but it can’t be seen because his face is buried in Bond’s crotch. He preens at the praise, though. Gets harder with every grunt and curse and groan he pulls from James. He takes his time, challenges himself to not use hands. Only suction and his tongue and the slide of his lips. He enjoys the way Bond tries to resist, tries to watch his film as Q puts everything he’s learned about the man’s preferences into practice. Q’s worked his way forward until his nose is ticked by Bond’s thatch and the head of Bond’s cock is grazing the back of his throat. He can taste the bitter precome just as the music for the credits starts, and Bond groans, fists Q’s hair, and starts fucking his throat.

“Bloody _hell_ you are fucking exquisite!” Bond grunts as he thrusts, finally stilling and pulsing into Q’s mouth.

Q swallows it all, panting and sputtering, and has just managed to open his eyes when Bond flips him onto his back and pulls his sleep trousers off.

“Hold yourself open for me," Bond says, pushing Q’s ankles back against his hands until Q grasps them and holds himself wide and vulnerable. “Let me see what’s mine. Ah… I thought as much. You got hard taking my come, didn’t you, my pretty little cockslut? Now, what should we do about this?” He asks, dragging a finger along the length of Q’s cock. “I feel quite at a disadvantage, not knowing what you like.”

And with that, he does something he’s done only once before. He licks Q’s cock, from base to tip, and then sucks it into his mouth. Q’s so surprised, he nearly lets go of his ankles.

Bond works him over, testing and tasting until Q is begging to be restrained because he’s becoming overwhelmed and he’s not sure he can maintain control enough to even hold onto his own ankles. Then Bond scrapes his teeth against Q’s cock and he cries out and literally begs.

“Please what, pet?” Bond asks, nipping at Q’s inner thigh.

“I don’t know, sir,” Q manages. He just knows that he doesn’t want to come yet and his knuckles are white trying to hold his legs open and he wants more of _everything_.

Bond hovers over him, contemplating, sleep trousers tented again. “I know what I want to do to you the rest of the evening, but it involves tying you to my bed,” he proposes.

They haven't done that yet. The contract stipulates that Bond isn't to enter Q’s bedroom at all, but Q is allowed in Bond’s bed so long as he’s collared. But it’s more intimate than anything they’ve done.

“Please, sir.”

“Blindfolded.”

“Please, sir.”

Bond’s mattress is comfortable, and the upholstered headboard attached to the wall has portions that swing up to reveal anchors screwed straight into the wall supports, perfect for binding Q’s wrists over his head. Bond’s also fastened cuffs around his ankles and bound them together and to the base of the bed, so Q is stretched long and straight against the mattress on his back, naked and needy, with a silk blindfold over his eyes.

“Christ, you’re lovely,” Bond murmurs. He’s moving about the room now that Q is settled on the bed. Preparing things, though Q can’t make out what it all is… until he hears the scratch of a match being lit. Moments later he smells wax, and he shivers with anticipation.

“Do you know what we’re doing?” Bond asks, finally.

“Wax play?” Q asks, hoping it’s true.

“Have you done it before?”

“Only once.”

“Did you like it?”

Q’s cock twitches before he can answer. He licks his lips. “I did, but we didn’t get very far with it.”

“The Dom switched activities?” Bond asks, clearly surprised.

“No...” Q tries to decide how much of this to share. “It wasn’t a Dom. It was a lover, but...he didn’t have the stomach for it.”

“Even though you liked it?”

“Even though I _clearly_ liked it,” Q confirms.

He feels Bond’s weight shift on the mattress, feels Bond straddle his thighs and lean forward. “We won’t have that problem, will we?” Bond asks.

“No sir.” And with that Q feels the first drop of hot wax on his chest.

He remembers the anticipation being a big part of this last time. Seeing where the candle was hovering, watching the tilt, knowing the exact patch of his skin that will feel the sting of the heat.

Being blindfolded, he finds the anticipation intensified… like _all_ his nerve endings are anticipating since he can’t narrow it down visually. The first drop is a shock, landing high on his chest a few inches from his nipple, making Q twist and cry out, and pant as Bond blows on it and then flicks the hardened wax from his skin. But then Bond starts a pattern, first one side of his chest, then the other, creeping closer to his nipple until it’s clear that the next drop will be _on_ his nipple. He pants a few bracing breaths and waits for it.

“Color?”

"Gree—ah!” _Christ_ , it lights him up. He barely registers that he’s pulling against his restraints. All he feels is Bond’s weight on his thighs, pinning him down, and Bond’s fingers flicking away the cooling wax.

“Easy, pet. You’re doing so well. Christ, I love how sensitive your nipples are. Have you considered getting them pierced?” Bond asks as the other nipple lights up from the hot wax.

“Are you offering to do it when I’m naked and tied to your bed? Because I don’t see the pleasure in it, otherwise.”

“I’m sure we could work something out,” Bond huffs, clearly amused as he flicks the wax away and leaves Q’s nipple exposed and raw. “Besides, I think the pleasure comes after.” And with that Bond drags his thumb across Q’s sensitized nipples and makes him cry out in a mix of pleasure and… if not pain, exactly, something intense.

The next track of wax drippings move from his sternum, down to his navel, and dangerously close to his cock before veering to his left hip bone. He’s both relieved and disappointed.

By the time Bond has encircled both his hipbones in wax, Q’s mind is singing. All he can think of is where Bond will touch him next, and whether it will be the heat of the wax, the cool of Bond’s breath as he blows to harden it, or the careful flick to remove the wax dribble and leave Q’s skin soothed by the cool air, or after a particularly large drop, Bond’s own mouth. He barely notices when Bond repositions him so his ankles are also secured to the headboard, spread wide, so he’s bent nearly in two, arse in the air and bollocks exposed and vulnerable. The first touch of wax is where the meat of Q’s arse meets his thigh, sensitive, but almost a warning of things to come. Sure enough, the next comes closer to his midline along the sensitive skin behind Q’s bollocks. It goes on and on, teasing and maddening and painful and blissful. The heat of wax, the flick and exposed skin, and a warm mouth… and then again, coming closer and closer to Q’s most sensitive skin, until Q is begging, tears welling in his eyes and slipping down his cheek.

“Color?”

“Green.”

The first drip on the shaft of his cock flows down its length and cools to a halt just a centimeter from his frenulum. Q howls and begs for more.

In some ways, it’s not unlike their play with the violet wand, but where that stimulated skin and muscle, leaving Q wrung out and exhausted, this is energizing. Intimate. The smell of the wax feels almost romantic, Bond’s tender tongue following each burn feels sensual and intimate and building inexorably toward a reckoning.

Finally, Bond is finished teasing his cock and bollocks and moves in a spiral toward his opening. When it’s clear where the final drop of wax is meant to go, Bond hesitates.

“Do it,” Q chokes out. “Please.”

Bond groans, and Q feels the wax pool against his pucker. He cries out and then immediately feels cool gel. Lube.

“I’m so fucking hard for you again,” Bond mutters, dragging the wax away and then pushing two cool, slick fingers into Q, twisting them and pressing against his prostate so Q lights up in a completely different way. “I’m going to fuck you just like this. Tied to my bed, skin marked by my wax."

Q barely has time to say “green” before Bond is pushing in, thrusting hard and grasping Q’s cock in a lube slicked hand.

Q comes first, his cock pulsing in Bond’s fist as Q arches and shudders against his restraints. Bond follows a moment later with one more deep press, pinning Q firmly into the mattress.

And _finally_ , Q feels himself let go of all the tension he’s carried for a week, allowing himself to sink into the sheets.

He’s blissfully unconcerned as Bond removes the restraints, and wipes him down first with a wet cloth and then with the medicated gel he often uses after scenes that leaves Q’s skin feeling soothed and a bit pissed.

“Time to get up, pet,” Bond urges.

Q offers a disgruntled groan.

“I’m sure you’d rather wake up at your leisure in your own, clean bed than deal with my alarm.”

Q opens one eye and realizes the blindfold has been removed.

“There you are. Feeling okay? Anything sore in a way it shouldn’t be?”

Q takes quick stock of himself and sighs happily, shaking his head.

He feels a bit coltish as he gets to his feet, but he’s getting cold and the thought of his comforter is appealing. Bond walks him to the door of his suite, like he always does, unfastens the collar and kisses the skin that has been hidden from him during the scene, thanking him for another lovely evening. And as Q drifts off to sleep, content and sated, he finds he misses the smell of the wax.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to Mid for betaing and to everyone who’s been reading and commenting.
> 
> This chapter fills two prompts from my collab table. The first is “How about lovely colored rope harnesses worn under clothing in very public places?” and the second is this picture of a leather-clad falconer:
> 
> I hope you enjoy it. It turned out to be rather long...
> 
> ps, the top center pic in my story banner, and the two right-hand pictures in this chapter's mood board are both from justanothertart on Tumblr. He indicates that he welcomes people using his images for fanedits as long as he is credited. Please go check out his very inspiring blog.

The next morning, Q emerges from his bedroom a bit after ten, having slept like the dead. The marks from the wax have faded to a barely-noticeable pink, just a bit more sensitive than his untouched skin. Q keeps worrying them for the pleasure of the memories.

“There’s Sleeping Beauty,” Bond remarks when Q enters the kitchen. He moves to make toast as Q puts the kettle on.

“I figured I should be well rested for tonight. When did you want to go to the club?”

“We aren’t going to the club,” Bond remarks mildly.

“Oh. I thought you said to hold the night open.”

“I did,” Bond confirms, taking a sip of his coffee. “We’re going somewhere else. Somewhere quite special.”

Nerves and excitement flare up in Q’s belly.

“Do I get to know where?”

Bond smiles mischievously. “I think not. After you shower, come to my room and I’ll prepare you.”

“I’ll need to have some idea so I can dress appropriately,” Q counters, lathering marmalade on his toast and offering Bond a quick “ta” when he gives Q his tea.

“Come to me in a robe and a pair of lace knickers — a thong, I think, not the arseless ones — and I’ll have everything else you need.”

Q swallows his toast slowly. “You’re going to dress me?”

“I am.”

“In?”

“Among other things, a new suit, appropriate to the venue.”

“You bought me a new suit?”

“Problem?”

“I just feel like a kept man…”

“I’m fairly certain the one staying rent-free in the other’s flat is the actual kept man,” Bond says with a smile. “Does it bother you? I wasn’t sure what you had other than work suits, and this requires something a bit more formal. I did try to take your style into account.”

“I suppose not,” Q answers, shrugging. ‘I’m just not used to lavish gifts.”

“Well, perhaps you should be. But if it makes you more comfortable, consider it an exchange for a month’s rent.”

“Two months?”

Bond tilts his head. “Just one. I may want to get you another gift later.”

Q spends the better part of the day in nervous anticipation. He actually forces himself to work a bit, prepping materials for the mission Bond will be heading out on shortly. Finally, he retreats to his suite to shower and shave and prepare as if he were heading to the club, but no clubwear, Bond had said. No charcoal or glitter around his eyes, just a bit of something in his hair to control his curls.

He slips on the lace knickers, wraps himself in the black silk robe Bond first gave him, and makes his way to Bond’s closed door, knocking at exactly half-past.

Bond is already dressed in suit trousers, a crisp white shirt, and braces. He gives Q a heated look as he ushers him in.

“Let’s start with this,” he says, opening a velvet jewelry case to reveal a silver choker made of delicate chain mail, about an inch wide, but flexible. The two ends have small loops and a tiny padlock. “It’s a slave collar,” he says softly. “I have the key here.” He pulls a narrow chain from around his neck, under his collar. “It's supple enough that you can wear it under a shirt and tie. During our evening out. And only I can take it off.”

“It’s beautiful,” Q says. And it is. Delicate but not feminine, soft but strong. A symbol of belonging.

“Will you allow me to put it on you?” Bond asks, and he actually sounds unsure.

Q just steps forward and tilts his neck to make room. It feels smooth against his skin, molding to the shape of his throat. The lock fastens in place with a small snick, and Bond straightens it with a satisfied look.

“How does it feel?” he asks.

Q’s not sure how to answer. It’s so light compared to his usual collar that it feels barely there. Comfortable enough that he could see forgetting that it’s there. But he’s also acutely aware of its presence, and the fact that he can’t remove it himself without breaking it. Only Bond can.

“Perfect,” he answers.

Bond looks well pleased with a heat in his eyes that is going to distract Q all evening. As usual, his demeanor changes once Q is collared. He no longer invites Q to do things or makes requests. He simply unites Q’s dressing gown and pushes it gently from his shoulders, giving Q’s nearly naked form a possessive look.

“Bend over the table, pet. Grasp the far edge. Feet apart.”

Q walks over to the table Bond installed in his bedroom last week. A custom bondage table that looks merely like a semi-industrial entry table when the restraining bolts aren’t in place. Q drapes himself over it, clasping the far end and spreading his legs, tilting his arse up to make it a more inviting target for whatever Bond has in mind.

“No spankings tonight, pet,” Bond says as if reading his mind. Q hears the snap of a lube bottle opening, and Bond pulls the scrap of lace to the side and teases Q’s opening with a slick finger. “Well, at least not until later.” With that Bond works him open. Q closes his eyes and tries to relax as the toy is pushed in. It’s not one he knows… not terribly large or deep, but wide near the base -- enough to be a bit of a struggle to get in, but very secure once the widest part passes the ring of muscle, which then closes around the much more narrow and comfortable neck. A wide flat base sits snugly against Q’s skin and keeps the toy in place, helped as Bond replaces the lace thong over the toy.

“Very good,” Bond says, wiping his hand on a towel. “Up you come. How does that feel?” He asks as Q stands and feels the toy shift inside him; it stays where it belongs.

“Good. Secure, sir.”

“Take a few steps to make sure.”

Q does, and bloody hell, he’s already hard, and just walking with this inside him is going to drive him to distraction. Which he’s sure is the point, judging from Bond’s expression.

“Secure,” Q confirms, turning back so Bond can see how affected Q is under the narrow bit of lace covering his cock.

“Good. Kneel on the bed, please. Knees apart. Upright with your arms out.”

Q complies, confused until he sees Bond holding lengths of blue, narrow rope. Bond fashions a harness of interlaced knots running from his shoulder, down to his hips and then under his leg just below the meat of his arse. Bond has put him in leather harnesses before, but this feels more intimate, each expertly tied knot reminding Q that Bond was a naval officer. By the time he’s done, ropes criss-cross Q’s chest and belly with precision. Q’s nipples are stimulated when he moves and the rope rolls over them, and the ropes loop down on either side of his cock, pulling the lace even tighter across his bulge.

“Okay, stand up and see how that feels.”

Q is nearly in a daze as he stands, the ropes creaking against his skin with every move. At first, it feels like too much, but the ropes are narrow and have just a bit of stretch… enough that while teasing, the harness isn’t binding. Bond hands Q a pair of socks to put on, and Q very gingerly bends over so he can don them, mock complaining that Bond wants him to put on a show.

“I’m actually testing that the harness won’t cut off circulation when you sit down, but I admit the view is lovely. And I need to memorize how the ropes look so I can remember when they’re covered.

The suit Bond bought him is beautiful. A dark blue double-breasted, cut more narrow than Q normally wears his. He’s worried at first that it’s so tight the ropes -- or his erection -- will show underneath. But as he inspects himself in the mirror after Bond finishes the Windsor knot on his tie, he has to admit he looks good. Respectable, and fashionable, the tightness in his crotch not noticeable to anyone who doesn’t know to look. The tie knot fits over the collar padlock and he feels… safe. And a bit like a naughty present. He glances at James who is tying his own Windsor and offering Q a small smile, as if he’s debating unwrapping him again right now. James adjusts himself with a wink and dons his suit jacket.

“Shall we?” he asks, motioning to the door.

The car ride is some sort of exquisite torture, the ropes pressing into his skin deliciously, making him squirm in his seat, making the toy shift in his arse, making him shift again, making the ropes press into his skin…

He’s sure he’s going to be hard through their entire meal, but decides he enjoys the game when he sees Bond’s amused and satisfied look. He finally settles about ten minutes into the drive and decides that perhaps he’ll be able to forget they are there after all, when the toy comes to life in his arse, vibrating softly.

Q’s moan is audible.

“You’re going to have to exhibit better control than that,” Bond laughs, turning to cross the bridge. “That’s the lowest setting.”

“Fuck me,” Q groans.

“All in good time,” Bond smirks.

Q’s grateful for the practice run in the car. By the time they reach The Savoy, he’s grown accustomed to the buzzing in his arse and the ropes and the collar pressing into his skin, and can feign normal behavior convincingly, he thinks. Bond turns off the toy as they enter the restaurant and are seated.

Q has never eaten here; he’s only heard rumors of its grandeur. It’s a bit posh for his taste, but sitting across from Bond, both of them in their suits, he feels… if not comfortable, then appropriate… notwithstanding the toy up his arse.

Bond orders their drinks without consulting Q, which might normally feel odd, but he orders Q a top-shelf Manhattan with a spear of four dark cherries.

“You remembered,” Q says as the waiter leaves.

“It won’t be quite as striking, watching you eat them without the dark lipstick to match,” Bond says softly, taking a sip of water, “but still a nice view.”

They discuss the menu, decide on their order — a caviar and champagne course to start, because Bond is Bond — followed by soup, then meat, then salad. Q is sure it’s too much, but trusts Bond’s experience. They have their caviar as Bond explains the history of the place, and it honestly does feel a bit like a date — Q sipping his champagne and asking questions — until the toy lights up again. Q is more prepared this time, taking a deep breath to steady himself as Bond finishes his champagne with a smirk.

The meal would be sensual on its own… delicious flavors and textures delighting Q’s palate, the splendor of the room enticing him visually, aromas playing at his senses, and the feel of fine tailoring against his skin. Even without their little secrets, even without the toy buzzing to life and then quieting, making him shift against the knots Bond so carefully pressed into his skin, it would be a meal that bordered on hedonism. But with those things… with the light in Bond’s eyes and the pleased smirk on his face as he reaches into his pocket for the remote _again_ , it’s practically debauchery, all under the noses of the elite of London society.

Q finds he quite likes the idea. Bond is clearly having fun. And Q can occasionally fight back just a bit, as he demonstrates by sliding the last cherry off the skewer with his teeth and closing his lips around it as Bond tracks the movement. He offers his most innocent look when Bond’s gaze moves from his mouth to his eyes, and Bond mutters, “minx” as he looks away with an amused smile, rearranging his napkin so he can subtly adjust himself.

When the waiter asks if they’d like dessert, Bond says they need to make their theater reservations and suggests to Q that they have dessert there.

Q hopes he’s not talking about pudding.

Bond takes no mercy on him on the drive to the theater, keeping the toy on and letting his hand roam across Q’s thighs, high enough to tease his erection. By the time they pull into the valet for the nondescript theater door, even Q’s jacket does a poor job of hiding his bulge. Bond places a possessive hand on the small of Q’s back, just over the rope, and leads him to the door, presenting two tickets.

“Box 27, upstairs, second door on the left. The server will be by before the show starts to take your order.”

Bond leads him upstairs. The patrons are _very_ well dressed. Women in long shimmering dresses with plunging necklines, men in suits or dinner jackets. It’s fancy in a showier way than The Savoy. Or perhaps just more theatrical. Bond opens the door to Box 27 and Q finds it’s more a small private room with an opening facing the center of the theater. The stage is nearly in the round, with three stories of “boxes'' surrounding it three-quarters of the way around. They are on the second tier, stage left. There are boxes filling immediately across from them, a woman in a silver dress that barely contains her breasts sits close enough to the man beside her that she could be on his lap. He turns and plays with the necklace that sits up against her throat, with a silver chain dangling low between her breasts.

The toy intensifies in his arse, and Q looks up sharply to see Bond watching him, motioning to the small leather sofa that comprises their seating. Q blushes and quickly takes his seat so Bond can join him. Bond’s hand is immediately under Q’s jacket to play with the ropes along his back. The toy is buzzing, but between the music playing in the theater and the privacy of their box, Q isn’t worried about anyone hearing it. He leans back into Bond’s hand, observing the rest of the theater as Bond observes him.

“They’re all Doms and subs,” he surmises.

“That’s my clever boy,” Bond praises, opening the button on Q’s jacket so he can finger the ropes under the front of his shirt as well.

“And the show?”

“Appropriate to the audience,” Bond murmurs into his ear, and all the teasing energy of the dinner comes crashing down on him, and he aches.

Bond orders them dessert: chocolate mousse and cognac. It’s delivered just before the lights dim and the music swells.

It’s a cirque, but with much more nudity. The first act is a fairly ordinary trapeze routine, but the performers are both in sheer hosiery that allows the audience to see their tosses and flips almost as foreplay. In the end, the man sits on the trapeze like it is a swing, and the woman straddles him, legs over his hips and out the other side of the trapeze. They swing back and forth, nearly eye-level with Q’s seat, and close enough that Q can see the man is hard and fondling the woman as both of their legs pump them higher. As the music crescendos, so do her moans, and then in a series of flips Q can barely understand, they “come” and the lights go out.

The audience erupts in applause.

The next act is a pair of male contortionists, nude and hard and slowly shifting and balancing from pose to pose, sometimes mirroring each other, sometimes working together to counterweight each other and create almost abstract shapes. Q finds it mesmerizing. Erotic sculpture in motion. He recognizes some of the poses from his yoga practice, but others… he’s _quite_ sure he doesn’t bend like that. Unfortunately.

Still, Bond leans in and whispers in his ear, “I’ve sometimes thought I should collar you as soon as you get home, just so I can tell you to strip and I can watch you do your yoga in the nude. I don’t even want to interfere, though your ‘downward dog’ is enticing. I just want to lounge on the sofa and stroke myself until you’re done.”

Q shivers almost violently. “You could. I wouldn’t look like that, though.”

“Well, a certain amount of flexibility is enticing. More becomes… less appealing after a bit. I prefer your ‘still human’ shapes.”

Q looks around the theater again, just able to make out other pairs in the audience. Most subs are being played with as they watch the show, their Doms fondling collars or breasts. Some are sitting in their Doms' laps. Gasps fill the room and Q looks back to the stage to see the men have actually coupled in the most unlikely of poses, one man balanced precariously on one leg with his other held straight up in the air, being fucked slowly as they move apart and together in perfect counterbalance.

Q moans at the thought of it.

“You like that,” Bond whispers, dragging his fingers across Q’s bulge. “Shhh,” he chuckles as Q moans. “We can do anything we want in here, but you can’t distract from the main event.” He adds after a moment, "you're _that_ flexible," he murmurs, motioning to the man with his leg straight in the air.

“Yes, sir,” Q whispers. “I could do the stretch if I worked at it, but I don’t have the strength or balance to hold my leg up like that. That’s… that’s amazing. Beautiful.”

“Hmm. But if I restrained you in that position… supported your weight… I could fuck you slowly like that…”

Q considers the pose and imagines being in it, shivering again. “I think so, sir. I’m certainly willing to try.”

“Good to know,” Bond murmurs.

The next act is a magician, making various bits of clothing magically disappear from a bound sub in a way Q can’t make sense of. About halfway through, Bond feeds Q a spoonful of decadent mousse. Q nearly groans, but then remembers himself. Bond scoops the next spoonful and grasps Q’s hand and spreads it on the tips of his middle and index fingers, and then sucks them into his mouth, cleaning them thoroughly.

“You’re making it very difficult to stay quiet,” Q moans softly, the performance temporarily forgotten.

“I intend to make it all but impossible by the time the night is over,” he smirks, turning the toy up and directing Q’s attention to the stage.

A man steps out wearing all black leather and a falconer’s glove. He looks hot as hell, particularly surprising since he’s the most clothed anyone has been the whole show.

“You would look good in that,” Q whispers as Bond sucks more chocolate from his fingers.

“Would I?” Bond asks. “You like a man in black leather.”

“Among other things. Bespoke suits, for instance. Pajama bottoms,” Q gasps as Bond sucks at his fingers again.

On the stage, the man throws something into the air and whistles, and a huge white owl flies silently to grasp it from mid-air, landing on the man’s outstretched hand and returning it to him. They perform the trick twice more, and on the fourth time, when the bird tries to fly off, the man holds the tether and won’t let it go. In a burst of smoke, the bird is replaced by a sub in a sheer white tunic with a black leather tether on his ankle. Filmy material that looks like wings rustles as he tries to get away, but the falconer pulls him in and secures him to a bench, soothing him until he’s under a spell and allows the falconer to tease and fondle him, binding him with more black leather and finally fucking him.

Bond leans in to whisper in Q’s ear. “Fuck, we need to go shopping soon. I know what I want us to be for the ‘Saints and Sinners’ party at the club.”

“You want me to dress like a bird?” Q whispers back.

“No,” Bond huffs. “I’m not into furries. But--”

The theater plunges into darkness and erupts in applause.

“The idea of you all in white, with black tethers in my grasp… that sounds appealing,” Bond finishes softly.

Q shivers at the thought of being Bond’s captive for play. He enjoys role-playing...like the costume party they first met at. The toy is turned up again, and Q groans, wishing they were in the club. Or home. As delightful as this stage show is, Q is ready to _participate_ rather than spectate. He looks around the theater, noticing that the box across the theater looks empty, or half empty.

“Where’d she go?”

“Kneeling between her Dom’s knees, I daresay,” Bond says, his fingers tracing the ropes under Q’s shirt, both front and back. Working their way lower, in fact. Making the harness tug against the lace of Q’s knickers.

Q looks down to see a sizable bulge in Bond’s trousers. “Would you like me to…”

“I don’t want you to miss the show,” Bond says, noticeably not answering the direct question. He leans in and whispers into Q’s ear, “My plan is to make a mess of _you_. Make you come quietly in your pretty lace knickers and hide it under your dapper new suit so it’s our little secret. And then fuck you properly when we get home.”

“You make it sound like an either/or proposition,” Q pants as Bond’s fingers drift downward, dragging light, delicious pressure against the tip of his cock. “When I know enough about your recovery rate to know I can suck you off now and by the time we get home you’ll be ready to fuck me all over again.”

“ _Christ,_ you have a mouth on you,” Bond huffs.

“In more ways in one,” Q whispers archly, “as you well know.”

The next act starts. Two women: a sub and a Dominatrix.

“It won’t kill me to miss one act,” Q whispers, turning so his breath is hot in Bond’s ear. “Especially this one. But I imagine _you’ll_ enjoy the view even more if you’ve commanded your sub — the one wearing your _slave_ collar surreptitiously under his shirt collar — to suck. Your. Cock.”

It’s a bit of a gamble, taunting Bond like this, but he’s been so playful all night… and Q suspects Bond is holding back because Q said he wouldn’t do anything inappropriate for the venue. But they aren’t at The Savoy anymore, and Q’s aching…

Bond grasps him by the back of the neck, and he’s worried for a moment that he’s ruined their playful mood. But Bond pulls him back far enough for Q to see the dangerous glint in his eye. He slides Q’s tie through his fingers, tightening his grip and tugging like it’s a lead. “On your knees, my impatient little cockslut.”

Q drops to his knees, gasping as the harness digs into his arse.

Bond’s whisper is amused and a bit smug as he says, “Forgot about that, didn’t you?”

“I like it, sir,” Q says, starting on Bond’s flies as his Dom leans back on the sofa and spreads his arms out across the back like he’s the king of his domain. It gives Q an odd little thrill to make his Dom feel so satisfied in a semi-public place… he gets it in the club when he’s being good for Bond, but this is different. A bit more dangerous-feeling, although that might just be the fact that it’s unfamiliar. He’s conscious, though, that a few of the boxes on the third tier might be able to see… if not exactly what he’s doing, enough to guess.

Bond hisses as the cool air reaches his cock, and grunts as Q wraps his lips around the head and sucks.

“Hands behind your back,” Bond commands. “This Dominatrix is quite inventive,” he whispers roughly. “Giving me ideas.”

Q hums his approval and slides his mouth down Bond’s shaft.

“Christ, that’s lovely,” Bond whispers, letting his head fall back for a moment. “Just like that, pet.”

Q hears the crack of a whip and slap of a cane, the moan of the sub. His own cock twitches sympathetically. And so does Bond’s. Q looks up to see that Bond’s attention is again on the show. And judging from his expression, Bond is enjoying what he’s seeing almost as much as what he’s feeling. Q’s feels his own excitement grow, and intensifies his own stimulus as the snaps of the cane quicken. He tries to match the rhythm of the scene, feeding on the excitement. Bond finally groans, almost loud enough to be heard beyond their box. Grasping Q’s hair harshly as the sounds from the stage heighten, Bond takes control, pulling Q’s head down in the rhythm _he_ wants.

Q just tries to breathe and keep his balance, and swallow it all down as Bond groans and stills. Q laps it up, not wanting any to muss Bond’s suit. When he finally looks up, Bond is watching him, not the show. Q sucks him one last time and then opens his mouth with Bond’s cock lying on it. He’d normally put Bond away, but Bond commanded his hands behind his back, and hasn’t told him differently yet.

Bond grasps his cock with one hand, the other still holding Q’s head firmly in place. He squeezes the last bit of come out and smears it on Q’s lips sloppily.

He tucks himself away and fastens his flies, watching Q with a possessive heat. Then he reaches in his pocket again and turns the toy up another notch, and Q has to let his eyes fall closed and concentrate to control his reaction. The toy has increased and decreased in intensity all night, but Q now realizes that Bond has always stayed in the lower range of the toy’s capacity. And he’s probably about to experience the upper range.

“I’m half tempted to see if I can make you come just kneeling for me, but the next act is about to start.” Bond tugs on his tie and gets Q to rise and sit next to him again. “And I want to taste myself on you.”

Bond plunders his mouth, groaning happily, and pulling away before Q is ready for him to stop. Q’s panting as the next act is announced and two spotlights focus on a man at the base of a long piece of fabric. He’s wearing nothing but a tight, coiled loincloth, and his lean muscles bulge as he takes a running leap off the stage, swinging from the cloth in a wide circle. It seems more like a traditional cirque act as he starts tilting his body to look like he’s flying, then wrapping a leg around the cloth over his head, climbing the cloth all the way to the top, wrapping it around himself in an intricate way, and then letting go to spin and tumble his way to the bottom. It’s graceful and breathtaking. Each time he goes up, the wrap is even more intricate, and the series of flips and spins more dizzying and thrilling.

A second length of fabric extends from the ceiling, and the performer climbs both, allowing the fabric to pull his legs apart into the splits as he goes. When he tumbles down this time, he gets caught periodically, looking restrained and ecstatic before tumbling down a few more meters, starting to climb again before he reaches the bottom.

Bond has pulled Q onto his lap as he’s watched.

“Sir?” Q asks, worried that Bond wants his attention.

“Shh. Keep watching, pet. Let me play.”

Q turns back to the show as Bond teases at the ropes harness. The man is swinging between the cloths, now, head down, and each leg wrapped several times by one of the cloths. As he spreads his legs into the splits, he swings in place, but when he moves them together his legs slip through the coils and he drops a meter or two. Over and over he does this until his head is nearly brushing the stage. Then there’s a sudden snap of a whip against the stage. Two more cloths extend from the ceiling, and a figure in black uses them to capture the man’s arms on the upswing. The caught man struggles against his bindings as the Dom coils the fabric around his limbs, binding him, securing him. The Dom sets him spinning and swinging in an arc, spread-eagle and facing the ceiling.

As the Dom stops the man spinning, Q feels the toy speed up again. Bond is fondling his cock over his trousers, whispering in his ear, telling him to grasp his hands behind his back. He does as he watches the Dom onstage wrap new cloth around the old, linking the arm and leg on each side and spreading the man’s legs wide. He takes a crop from a table and steps between the man’s spread legs, dragging the tip across his skin as he writhes in the cloth restraints.

“You like this one,” Bond whispers. “Your cock keeps twitching.”

“That’s more to do with you and your toy, sir, but yes. I like this one.”

“I wonder if I could restrain you like that. The cloth looks so soft but it’s holding him quite firmly.” Bond opens Q’s flies and pushes the shirt aside, exposing the lace stretched across Q’s hard cock and the rope on either side. “I think we need to experiment with some new bindings,” he says as he drags his fingers up the length of Q’s shaft. “Leather is well and good, but there are so many other possibilities.”

“Yes, sir. I’m happy to have you restrain me any way you like.”

“Good boy,” Bond whispers into his ear. “Now, stay quiet while I make a mess of your pretty lace knickers.”

Q bites back a whimper as Bond starts teasing him in earnest. He knows enough of what Q likes now to know how to get him to the edge and then pull him back. Meanwhile, the Dom onstage is unwrapping the loincloth from his captured sub, whose cries have become erotic moans of pleasure. His cock is hard when it’s finally revealed, and the Dom gets him swinging again, landing teasing blows of the crop when he comes into range.

The toy is turned up again as the Dom onstage plays with the sub’s entrance, slipping a finger in and massaging his prostate as he writhes and begs loudly for more. Q bites back a moan and feels envious that the man can make so much noise. It _is_ a performance. The struggles are choreographed and begging may be an act, but that hard cock is not an act, and the noises the man is making as he gets closer are real enough to make Q squirm.

“You’d look so good like that,” Bond groans against his ear, and Q can actually feel the beginnings of another erection pressing into his hip.

“Shall I quit my day job and join the circus?” Q asks breathlessly.

“I was thinking of a more private performance,” Bond says, sucking Q’s earlobe into his mouth.

And that’s… oh god, that’s… “Sir,” he warns.

“That’s it, pet. Make a nice dirty mess of yourself.”

Q comes at the same time as the sub on the stage, and it’s glorious enough that he thinks Bond deserves all the applause that’s forthcoming.

The toy is quiet, Q is in happy bliss as Bond closes his trousers without cleaning him up. They watch three more acts, including a grand finale, but Q barely remembers it. He just focuses on Bond’s fingers gently playing with the ropes through his shirt and nuzzling Q’s hair with his nose. It’s simultaneously refined and animalistic, as if Bond is checking for his scent on Q. They finish their cognacs and, when the show is over, walk out into the crisp late-November air looking as if nothing happened.

As soon as they’re in the car, though, the toy is vibrating slowly again. Not enough to overstimulate him, just enough to get a warm interest spreading through him again.

He looks over to see Bond’s smug smirk.

“Are you going to keep it in all night, sir?”

Bond raises an eyebrow, considering the idea.

“Tempting,” he says, turning it up again and making Q laugh breathlessly.

He’s hard again by the time Bond gets them home. Bond’s hand has been roaming him possessively. Confidently. It doesn’t have the desperate edge he felt earlier. It feels indulgent. Like dessert.

Bond lead Q directly to his bedroom. “Strip,” he commands, starting on his own clothes and watching Q possessively.

Q isn’t one for striptease, really. He doesn’t have it in him to strut. He feels slightly ridiculous throwing a hip out flirtatiously. In a group at the club, fine. If his friends show him dance moves and he’s one of 20 subs on display, he can work it. But he’s never been tempted to perform solo displays. He wasn’t lying when he told Bond at the party that he prefers to be undressed by others.

But this is different. Bond doesn’t want a seduction. He wants to watch what he already knows is _his_ … his gift, if you will... unwrap itself.

And Q can give him that.

He goes slowly, because one thing he’s learned is that very fast is sexy and very slow is sexy and everything in between is just awkward undressing. By the time Q has removed his shoes and socks, and hung his jacket over the back of the chair, Bond is laying back against the headboard, naked, and stroking his cock as he watches Q. Q maintains eye-contact as he drops his trousers and kicks them away, and then pulls his tie loose slowly. He starts on the buttons, exposing the slave collar. Bond shifts lower on the bed, watching as Q unbuttons the shirt, and then reaches into the nightstand drawer to pull out supplies.

“Put the toy in this,” he says, handing Q a hand towel.

The ropes dig into him deliciously as he shifts the lace thong out of the way and bends over enough to work the toy out and wrap it away. By the time he’s done, Bond has rolled a condom on and is stroking himself slowly.

“Now, climb up here and ride me.”

They haven’t really done this before. Q likes bondage, and Bond almost always restrains him. But as Q climbs onto the bed and straddles him, Q understands. Every movement makes the ropes shift and tug at him enticingly. He continues to move slowly, in part because of the ropes, and in part because of the look on James’ face as he moves the lace aside and works himself onto Bond’s cock, savoring both the feeling and the almost decadent, indulgently slow pace. He’s in no hurry for this to be over, and James also seems to be savoring his _dessert._

He starts undulating his hips and torso, enjoying the feeling of freedom even as the harness presses into his skin. Bond continues to watch and savor, not even touching Q until with a groan he grasps onto the ropes over Q’s hips and pulls down, hard.

It doesn’t take long after that. Bond releases Q’s cock ( _finally_ ) from the lace and starts pumping it.

“Don’t hold back, pet,” he encourages, and god Q isn’t ready for the night to be over yet, even with all the time they’d spent together, but the impending orgasm won’t be denied. He comes across Bond’s belly, vaguely surprised he’s allowed to as Bond grasps him harder and fucks up into him.

When Bond is finished, he pulls Q down next to him on the bed and they recover together, breathing slowly coming back to normal. Q is exhausted and would be happy to just fall asleep, but Bond is up again, cleaning him up, cutting the rope in a few places so it can be peeled off. He lays next to Q, propped up on one elbow, tracing the indentions in Q’s skin from the ropes for a while before asking, “Okay, pet?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anything sore? I don’t see any abrasions.”

“No, sir,” Q responds dreamily.

“Ready for sleep?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let’s get you back to your room, then.”

Bond walks him down the hall, still nude except for the chain around his neck holding the key to Q’s collar. He unlatches it at the door, removing it and kissing the skin that’s been hiding beneath.

“Thank you for a lovely evening, Kerr.”

Q falls asleep tracing the lines in his skin.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter fulfills two prompts from my collab table: “Bond asks Q if he can take a pic of him after he's all fucked out” and “Massage.” It also fulfills the 2018 anon prompt “eve and q go lingerie shopping.”
> 
> All but the lower left and lower center pictures from the chapter mood board are from justanothertart's blog on Tumblr. Go give him some love. :D
> 
> Much thanks to Midrashic, but parts of this are unbetaed, so my mistakes are my own. ;-)

“I want to take a picture of you like this.”

“What?” Q asks. His brain is addled from the frankly _spectacular_ orgasm. He’s blindfolded, his wrists are secured to the headboard of Bond’s bed, his lace knickers are pulled down his hips, and come adorns his belly. He definitely does _not_ want photographic evidence of his current state.

“Absolutely not,” he says, trying for his best Q voice, despite the collar and the blissed-out tenor belying his authority.

“Please, pet,” Bond coos, nuzzling Q’s ear in a way that tickles a bit but also sends a thrill down his spine and makes his spent cock offer a feeble twitch. He can feel Bond’s grin. “I won’t include your face. Just from your collar,” he touches it with his finger, “down to your knickers and pretty, spent cock,” he adds, dragging his finger through the come on Q’s belly on its way to the lace. “I’m going to be away on mission for a week,” he pouts. “I need something to wank to in cold hotel sheets. And you’re so. Fucking. _Sexy_.”

Q whimpers. How is a sub meant to withstand praise and begging when high on endorphins?

“Use my burner phone,” he says, turning his head to the nightstand where he knows it’s sitting. “I’ll set you up a similar phone for more _personal_ photos. We don’t need this getting onto MI6 servers, whether my face is visible or not.”

He feels Bond’s weight shift over him, and _Christ_ even that gets him going. He’s been tied to Bond’s bed for an hour or two every day since their _date_ , as if stocking up on experiences before Bond is sent out. He hears the fake shutter sounds from his phone.

The next day, as Bond is in Q Branch to receive his kit, he reaches in his pocket and shows Q he has the burner phone as well. He turns and leaves with his usual spring in his step, and Q can’t help but watch his arse as he walks away. When the door of the branch closes, he turns to see Moneypenny watching him.

Bugger.

“Who’s got the branch tonight?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“R,” Q says, wondering if his tone shows how much he’s not looking forward to going home to an empty flat.

“I could really use your help with something.”

“What’s that?”

“I’ll pick you up after your shift,” she says enigmatically.

Q shakes his head, sighing. Spies. Always so dramatic.

He finds himself at a boutique lingerie store — a lingerie store for both women _and_ men — called The Queen of Tarts.

“I have an anniversary coming up, and I need help picking something out,” Eve declares. “And if _you_ find anything interesting,” she suggests, eyeing a lace “harness” that wouldn’t restrain anyone, but that nonetheless looks quite appealing, “Well, that’d just be a bonus.”

“I’m sure I have no idea what you’re talking about, Moneypants.”

“Hmmm. I’m sure.”

Q spends the next hour perusing the store while occasionally informing Eve whether this baby-doll or the last makes her breasts look better. He’s not sure why she thinks he has any expertise in this matter, but he does find that he’s rather opinionated. As she’s paying for her selections, she asks, “You didn’t find anything?”

“Honestly, Moneypants,” he says vaguely, rolling his eyes.

Needless to say, he’s back the next night when he isn’t being observed, and his credit card is positively _screaming_ by the time he leaves.

That night, before going to bed, he tries on one of the new purchases and sends the picture to Bond’s burner phone with the message: ‘in case the sheets are particularly cold’.

He wanks to the thought of Bond seeing the photo, hitching the mesh sheath high enough that he doesn’t soil it.

He wakes to a text on his burner: ‘Minx.’

The week continues with this dichotomy. During the day, Q wears a suit and proper pants and embodies the Quartermaster. In the evening, he takes pictures of himself in his new purchases, actually making an effort to make them somewhat artistic. And because timezones are a thing, he doesn’t see Bond’s responses until the next morning, but they are increasingly suggestive of what exactly Bond intends to do to him when he gets home.

He leaves work early on Friday so he can prepare _fully._ He’s off all weekend, Bond’s mission was a success, and he’s expected home by seven. And Q has been riling him up all week…

At ten past seven, he hears the door open. He’s kneeling on a pillow, wearing the thick collar Bond first put on him and the sheath that’s nothing but straps across the back. The outline of his erection is clear against the thin fabric of the front of the sheath, because he’s hard just from anticipating Bond’s arrival. His eyes are downcast but he can tell from the tenor of Bond’s groan at the sight of him that Bond is affected in much the same way.

“You are a _delightful_ menace,” Bond says, grasping Q’s hair as he unzips his trousers and frees his cock, pushing it into Q’s mouth.

He’s not gentle, but Q doesn’t want him to be. It feels like they’ve had _days_ of foreplay and he just wants his fucking Dom.

“Up,” Bond commands. Tugging on his hair.

Q wobbles a bit as he stands on the boots he bought to go with these lingerie sheaths. They aren’t that high, but they do amazing things for his legs.

“Fuck me,” Bond groans when he sees them, and Q knows they were worth the 200 quid he paid for them.

“I was rather hoping you’d fuck me, sir,” Q quips back.

“Go bend over the back of the sofa,” Bond orders in a husky voice. “Are you prepared?”

“Yes, sir.”

Q hears the tear of the condom wrapper. He makes his way to the sofa, bending over the blanket draped across its back and awaits further instructions. They never come. Instead, he feels Bond’s warm hands explore the skin exposed at his lower back, feels Bond’s fingers spread the straps crossing Q’s arse and then spread his arse, exposing his opening.

“Christ, I’ve wanted you for days,” Bond says as he explores Q’s opening and finds it slick and ready. He pushes in with a single thrust, robbing Q of his breath. He sets a brutal pace, and Q is so close to the edge from all the anticipation and having his cock pressed into the sofa that he comes before Bond. The whole encounter is over in a few minutes, with both of them gasping for breath. Q hears Bond zip his trousers back up and lifts himself off the blanket draped over the back of the sofa. It will need washing, as does the sheath that’s wet and clinging to his skin.

He sighs and turns to face Bond, finally relaxed enough to greet him properly. He reaches for Bond’s waist, noticing Bond’s wince as he wraps an arm around Q’s shoulders.

“You’re hurt,” Q surmises.

“It’s just a muscle pull,” Bond assures him. “I need a shower, though.”

“Let me help you. We can switch collars and I can wash you.”

“Are you sure?” Bond asks. “I’ve been looking forward to taking you to the club in your tartiest new lingerie, but…”

“Absolutely. It’s been a long week for me, too. Maybe we can go to the club later this weekend, but for tonight, I just want to wear your collar and stay at home.”

An expression Q can’t quite interpret crosses Bond’s face. “Come with me.”

Bond stops by his room to retrieve the slave collar, and then leads Q to the bathroom, strips him, and swaps out the leather collar for the lighter slave collar that can get wet. Something settles in Q’s chest as he hears the delicate padlock click tight.

Q starts the water warming and then starts undressing Bond as the glacial blue eyes watch him. He’s tired, Q thinks. More than he wants to admit. And as much as Q enjoys being taken to the club and shown off, he enjoys caring for Bond as well.

He ushers Bond into the shower, letting him rinse himself before taking over. First, he massages shampoo into his scalp, rinsing the suds away before starting with a body wash. He rubs it into Bond’s neck and shoulders, down his back, across his chest. Bond turns them as Q starts washing Bond’s arse and cock, humming his pleasure. It’s too soon for him to really get hard again, but his cock is heavy with interest. Q rinses him and then kneels, washing his legs. He looks up to see Bond watching him.

“Suck me,” Bond commands.

Q takes him into his mouth, maintaining eye contact. It’s still too soon. Bond isn’t really getting hard again, but he’s clearly enjoying Q’s ministrations. Bond savors it for a minute or two, and then gruffly says, “My turn,” pulling Q up to standing, kissing him hard, and turning him to push him against the glass door. He rubs Q down, and it feels more like claiming him than cleaning him, but Q doesn’t mind in the least. When Q’s thoroughly clean and explored, Bond turns off the water. He allows Q to towel him dry.

“Are you hungry?” Q asks.

“I ate before I came home. The time difference,” he explains. “What about you?”

“I’m fine, sir. Good until morning.”

“Good.” He fingers the collar.

“What would you like, sir?” Q asks.

Bond sighs. “What’s the longest you’ve ever been collared?’

Q thinks back. “Do you mean the longest relationship where a collar was involved?”

“No. Continuously collared.”

“Oh… Probably that night when we went to dinner and the theater. I think that’s longer than any scenes I’ve ever done.” Q looks at Bond wondering if he’s considering what Q _thinks_ he’s considering. ”I’ve always wondered what it would be like to go 24 hours… or a weekend.”

Bond sighs, relief evident in his stance. “What I’d _like_ is for you to put on another of your little lace sheaths and come to my bed. And stay there. Perhaps massage my back a bit more… that seemed to help…”

Q rises up to give Bond a quick kiss. “I’ll be there in a moment.”

He changes into the lace sheath James seemed the most interested in via text and returns to Bond’s room. James has lit a candle, but otherwise, the room is dark. He’s lying on the bed on his stomach, arms tucked beneath his pillow, and Q suddenly feels quite honored to see him this way, guard so lowered, even right after a mission. He notices the massage oil out on the nightstand and smiles. He quite enjoys giving massages. He climbs on the bed, pours a few drops on his hand, and gets started.

Bond takes to it like a cat getting welcome scratches, stretching and arching under Q’s touch and moaning in a way that has Q growing hard. “Straddle me,” Bond says as Q’s hands move his way down Bond’s back. And it’s better. It is. He can really press into the meat of Bond’s muscle. Nevermind that his cock is lined up with Bond’s arse and the lace is riding up...

“Kerr? Do you ever top?”

There’s no way Bond missed the way his cock twitched against his arse.

“Yes,” Q answers carefully. “But I’ve never done it while subbing. Seems a bit counter to the usual dynamics.”

“Hmmm. I suppose that’s true, in a general sense. Have you ever thought about how you’d do it?”

He’s certainly thinking about it _now_. “If, hypothetically, my Dom asked me to?”

“Precisely. If you had anything at your disposal and could do anything save tie him down, what would you do?”

Q considers it for a moment. “How does my hypothetical Dom feel about multiplay?” he asks.

Bond tenses. “What do you mean?”

Q soothes Bond’s muscles.

“Well, assuming that I was very concerned about pleasing this Dom, merely topping doesn’t seem to show enough deference to his pleasure. If he were amenable, I think I’d book one of the private rooms in the basement of the club, and tag a fellow sub, someone I _knew_ gave good head. And I’d start with a massage like this one, but on the padded tables with the hinged, spreadable base. And once he was properly relaxed _and_ excited by two sets of hands working him over, I’d separate the hinge so his legs were spread, have my counterpart kneel under the table and lick his cock while I rimmed him.”

Bond grinds against the mattress as Q drags his hands down either side of James’ spine and press into the rise of his arse.

“Only after he had _thoroughly_ enjoyed that for as long as he could bear and commanded me to, would I deign to slip my cock inside him, nice and slowly, sure that the angle was just right.” James moans softly. “And after he came down my counterpart’s throat, I’d finish the massage until his muscles were so loose they barely supported him.” Q kneads the muscles in Bond’s arse. “Why? Is that something that would interest you?”

“You are a _minx_ ,” Bond laughs, twisting and grasping Q’s wrists. “Come here.”

He pulls Q down on the bed beside him, palming him through the lace and kissing him. “I want to tie you to the bed,” he whispers.

“Yes, sir.”

“You’ll stay here all night… maybe all weekend, wrists secured over your head. And if I want you… if I wake up in the middle of the night hard and you’re tied to my bed, I’ll just take you. Do you understand?” he asks softly. “This is you offering consent. I won’t ask again.”

“Why would you need to ask, sir? I’m yours.”

Bond groans and gives Q a kiss before retrieving the wrist cuffs.

Q’s never fallen asleep still tied to a bed. But he lays on his side, wrist secured over his head and Bond spooning him from behind, palming Q’s cock through the lace, he finds he feels safe and cared for and wanted.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter satisfies the collab table prompt "shibari with edging and prostate milking. " And it's pretty much what's on the tin.
> 
> Unbetaed we die like me. Off to write the last chapter...

Q comes home on Friday evening exhausted — ready for a bath and a drink and an hour in front of the telly — to find Bond sorting lengths of rope on the coffee table. The box holding Q’s slave collar is there, too.

“I’d like you ready to leave in an hour,” Bond says.

It’s definitely his Dom persona… or something close to it, but also very carefully not an order. Because Q isn’t collared. And he’s about to tell Bond that he really doesn’t have the energy when he sees something in Bond’s expression that stops him. It’s a quiet, pent up passion. Controlled, but perhaps dangerous in some way.

This isn’t the Dom that played with him all last weekend. The one that was playful and teasing and so wonderfully possessive. _This_ Dom has that hint of danger that he’s seen occasionally at the club. The one that thrills Q’s darker side. And it makes Q remember something Bond said when they met at the Halloween party: “I need...I would like someone who can read my mood and tell if I need them to be playfully challenging or accept a bit of rough handling or just... mind me… accept my instructions.”

And Q _knows_ James as a Dom by this point. He can read his moods.

He sets his backpack by the door, removes his coat and jacket and hangs them up, and then walks across the room to Bond, removing his tie and unfastening the top several buttons of his shirt and stretching his neck in invitation.

Bond breathes a sigh of relief and fastens the slave collar around Q’s throat, his shoulders relaxing just a tad as the lock clicks shut.

“How shall I dress, sir?”

“Just shower and prepare yourself — _stretch_ , as I may be pushing the limits of your flexibility _—_ and come to me in boots you can slip off easily.”

No clubwear, Q interprets. Boots to hide that he won’t be wearing much under his coat as they travel. “Yes sir.”

Q takes a snack to his suite so he’ll have energy for whatever Bond has planned. Does a bit of yoga, focusing on relaxing any kinks in his neck and back and then making sure his legs and arms are limber. He cleans _thoroughly_ , and by the time he’s done he feels centered and refreshed. He slips a pair of flat suede thigh-high boots over his bare feet, and goes to Bond’s room, expecting some new outfit. But Bond merely looks him over approvingly, removes his own collared white shirt, and slips it onto Q, buttoning it up partway and rolling up the sleeves. He dons a black t-shirt ushers Q to the door, where their coats and a large duffle are waiting.

It feels… vulnerable, he decides. To be outside like this. The coat is covering him, but he can feel that he has no pants… that the slave collar shows for anyone who might be looking. No one is, but still. It makes him realize that he wears the clubwear almost like a uniform. Or armor. He feels much barer in nothing but James’ collar and shirt.

They drive in silence, Bond foregoing his usual teasing. At the club, Bond has him remove his coat and boots. He attaches a lead to Q’s collar and leads him through the main floor of the club. Just like that. Commanding. Efficient. The movements of a Dom secure in knowing his sub will not disappoint him.

Q is very curious about what he’s in for.

It gets attention. Almost more than if Q were wearing sexy black lace or fishnets and Bond were teasing him. Bond ignores the bar and leads Q directly to the lower level, where smaller private and semi-private rooms are the norm. Bond brings him to a small demonstration room with a padded table in the center.

“Climb up here and kneel, pet,” he says, turning to unpack the contents of his duffle onto a side table with a tray.

Q glances at the hooks in the ceiling before getting into position. Bond hasn’t specified, so Q assumes what he’s found to be Bond’s preferred kneeling pose: feet tucked under his arse but knees apart, back straight or a bit arched so his arse and chest are exposed, chin down. He senses the room filling up, the row of chairs along two walls being claimed by Doms, often with subs kneeling at their feet. Others are standing around the edge of the room. It’s intimate enough that he can hear the rustling of their clothes, the creak of the leather over the soft music being pumped into the room.

Q feels their eyes on him. The oversized shirt is shielding him, but he feels _exposed_. Bond knows him, too. He knows that just this… being watched, the anticipation of what Bond plans to do with all those ropes, wondering if the crop or cane or other toys are in the bag as well… even the very fact that the crisp shirt hides his erection for the moment, like a secret… it all excites Q. Whets his appetite for another order. He doesn’t have to wait long.

“Remove the shirt, pet,” Bond says, still not looking at him, but confident he’s being obeyed. Q’s fingers tremble slightly as he unfastens the buttons and slips it off his shoulders and holds it out for Bond to take.

When it’s no longer in his hand, he instinctively clasps his hands behind his back. Awaiting Bond’s inspection and approval. He’s nude except for the slave collar, and it feels lighter than the gaze of the audience.

“Knees all the way apart. Let them see how flexible you are.”

Q complies, and it forces him to arch his back a bit more to keep his balance, but when Bond finally turns to inspect him, Q hears his pleased hum.

“Yes, just like that,” Bond says, holding the first rope.

Shibari requires patience that most people at the club don’t have. Or at least, not when they're at the club. Restraining someone with leather harnesses and cuffs and carabiners to reposition said cuffs is faster and allows a Dom to get to the toys/spanking/fucking much more easily.

But there’s something seductively sensual about the feel of the rope — silk maybe — warmed by Bond’s fingers. And though Q first thought he was too tired for a scene, this he can do. Holding his position isn’t easy, but it just takes concentration and stamina, and it gets easier as they go and Bond has _tied_ his limbs in position.

First, it’s his arms. Intricate knots weave back and forth between his arms from his shoulders to his wrist, creating a “V” that he could not get out of if he tried. He can hear the hums of admiration behind him, and some of the Doms in the chairs get up to have a closer look.

Next, Bond twists two narrow ropes around Q’s chest, capturing each nipple before tightening with more twist, securing the entire wrap with laces up to Q’s shoulders to keep it in place. Now if Q arches or twists, the ropes pinch and tug at his nipples, making him gasp.

Bond hums his approval and adjusts himself before taking the next length of rope. He creates a rope harness around Q’s torso, thicker than the one he wore under his clothes on their date, but otherwise similar. Q feels the tight bindings under his arse, across his middle, up the center of his chest, and over his shoulders, and down the center of his back, flaring out at his hips so his cock, bollocks, and opening are still accessible.

He’s aching now. Breathing more and more heavily as more and more of his skin is touched by ropes, and yet nothing touches his cock.

The next length is so narrow it almost counts as twine. Q is told to look up as Bond sets about wrapping the base of his bollocks like a cock-ring. It’s a teasing touch, just enough to show him what he’s missing. He’d almost rather have the rough glove Bond used on him their first scene together. A crowd has gathered close enough to study the intricate knots Bond is using… a Navy man, Q reminds himself. The wrap extends around the base of Q’s cock as well, and then down its length, knots and wraps forming a sheath all the way to the glans, leaving only the tip available to touch.

It means, Q realizes, that his cock will only receive _this_ as stimulation. This subtle rubbing of the ropes together along his length. Enough to tease and torment, but that’s all.

Bond catches his eye. In the past, he might have asked Q for a color at this point, but they know each other now. Bond raises an eyebrow, Q offers a slight nod of his head, and Bond picks up the next rope.

His left leg is secured, ankle to thigh, thick rope making it impossible for him to shift or straighten it and much harder to keep his balance. Bond notices and lowers the hook from the ceiling, securing it to the rope between his shoulder blades to keep him upright.

Bond is still silent. He’s pleased. Q can tell he’s pleased, but he misses the stream of praise that normally comes from his Dom. The rest of the crowd is more vocal, humming appreciation, adjusting themselves… it’s much more intimate than the display spaces upstairs where he’s elevated in an alcove. _That_ is like being on a stage. This is like… he’s not sure. But he can feel the heat coming off some of the spectators, they are standing so close. He has the odd sense that he's being prepared like a meal.

Now that he doesn’t have to work so hard to keep his balance, Q is able to concentrate on the feeling of the ropes. The way they not only bind and tease him, but how firmly he’s being held in place. At least parts of him. His arms really are completely immobile, though he’s happy to say that he can move his wrists and nothing is going numb. His left leg… he can move his hip joint and his toes slightly. His torso feels practically _embraced_ by the ropes… the patches of bare skin barely registering in Q’s mind compared with the firm pressure of the bindings. The way they seem to press in on him almost everywhere.

And his cock is positively encased in rope.

Which is probably why he’s so startled when a slick finger probes his entrance.

He cries out as he’s breached. Moans as his prostate is teased and his cock twitches against its bindings.

“Isn’t that pretty?” he hears in a familiar voice.

“Hello, Marcus,” James says, amiably. “Lovely evening, isn’t it?”

“I’d say so,” Marcus agrees. “Still with this one, I see.”

“Hmm.” Bond agrees, continuing to stroke Q’s prostate. “As I mentioned before, he’s remarkably resilient.”

Q cries out as his cock twitches in his bindings again. The motions are all just barely there. Not like the usual thwack of the crop or cane, the thrust of a cock. He feels pressure building with each minute massage, and it’s not dissipating anywhere.

“How long has he been like this?” Marcus asks.

Bond considers the question for a moment. “He’s been hard for nearly an hour, but he’s just now getting near the edge.”

Marcus grins. “And how long do you plan to keep him like this?’

Bond shrugs. “I haven’t even finished the ropework, yet. Oh, there, pet. You’re okay,” he soothes as Q whimpers.

Q can feel himself getting closer to an orgasm, inadvertently moves his free leg in an aborted thrust.

“No cheating, pet,” Bond scolds mildly.

It goes on forever… The teasing touch gets him close enough that his cock swells just a touch more, just enough to make the ropes actually hurt and cause his erection to retreat a bit. Not wilt, but fade to the point that the ropes aren’t painful. And then it happens again. By the third time, he can hear himself begging and almost doesn’t recognize his voice. Fingers brush across the small patch of bare skin of his bollocks and he… well, he doesn’t exactly come, but there’s the tiniest of releases. The barest amount of relief as he sags against the ropes.

“That should hold you over, pet,” Bond says, removing his finger and wiping it on a towel. “Now. Where were we?”

Bond unhooks him and arranges him on his side on the table, and Q is grateful he doesn’t have to try to balance anymore. Bond threads new ropes through the ones at his shoulders and wrists and secure them to the table so he can’t roll off. Q’s left leg is bent and secure to itself, but Bond starts on a new wrap on the right. Another intricate series of knots that run from his upper thigh to his ankle, forcing the leg straight. Bond attaches the hook from the ceiling to the ropes at Q’s ankles, says, "Hold tight, pet”, and pulls Q’s hips to the end of the table.

He gasps as he registers this new position, even as Bond adjusts it by raising the hook to the limit of Q’s flexibility. Q lies on his side along the long edge of the table, arms tied and secured behind him so he doesn’t tip off the edge. His left leg has dropped off the edge of the table, bent and secured to itself, and now a table leg, effectively tucked out of the way and restrained. His right leg extends straight up, secured to the ceiling.

The only thing he can move is his head.

“Now we can play properly, Bond announces. “How long can you hold this position, pet?”

Q isn’t holding anything. He’s being held. “As long as you like, sir.”

“That’s a good boy,” Bond says, brushing a finger across Q’s bollocks again.

It’s cold, and Q looks to see that James is holding a glass of scotch. He looks pleased, and relaxed, and much more the playful Dom he’s used to, but with a gleam in his eye that tells Q his limits are going to be pushed.

“Green, sir.”

It’s different, this time. He feels _so_ exposed. So helpless, so on display… he doesn’t even try to control anything. Doesn’t try to chase the orgasm that he knows isn’t his to have. Bond teases his prostate with one hand and holds his scotch with the other, sipping at it and chatting with the other Doms while Q’s desperation ebbs and flows. Once, just before he finds a small release, Bond places his cold glass against Q’s glans and he gasps and tries to shy away, but can’t.

He’s desperate. Nearly in tears. He begs, and Bond adds another finger. By the time Bond is up to four fingers, Q’s mouth goes dry from crying out and moaning. He suddenly feels two scotch-soaked fingers in his mouth, and he sucks at them greedily.

“Oh fucking hell,” Marcus says, and Q opens his eyes to realize the fingers don’t belong to Bond. Of course they couldn’t. Bond is standing behind him, pumping his arse.

“Give him a bit more,” James says, smiling, and Q is glad to know he’s not in trouble. The fingers are back, and Q opens his mouth. “That’s it, pet. Oh, _Christ,_ that's pretty.”

Bond’s fingers are gone and Q hears the tear of a condom and Bond pushes inside him. The position he’s in makes Bond feel _huge,_ and Q moans around Marcus’ fingers.

“Want something bigger for your mouth, too, pet? Because I’d like to watch your lips stretch around his cock while I fuck you.”

Q whimpers and says “green” and the fingers are gone and Q’s gasping.

“You can’t touch him,” Q hears over the sounds of a condom being unwrapped.

“Understood,” Marcus answers, and Q feels the tip of a cock against his lips.

It’s almost overwhelming. Excruciatingly slow and decadent. He focuses on Marcus’ cock because his mouth is really the only part of him he can move, and Bond likes to watch. The more he works Marcus up, the harder Bond thrusts. Q's cock is again in exquisite agony as it gets close to release and then squeezed. And he likes cock and ball torture. He does. That’s what got them started on this path. But he wants to come so badly he could scream.

Marcus comes first, followed quickly by James thrusting hard into Q, grasping his elevated leg with both hands for leverage.

Q doesn’t come. He feels hollowed out when Bond pulls out. He’s still at the edge and gasping, and then Bond fingers are back, milking him in earnest, and Q… well, he doesn’t come, exactly but it’s something. It’s a resolution of sorts. One that doesn’t put him in the same submissive blissed-out headspace he’s normally in after a scene, but one that makes him acutely aware that Bond owns his orgasms. And _that_ is a completely different type of subspace.

The crowd breaks up and he feels some of the ropes removed. His legs are free. Then his arms. Then the bindings around his chest and nipples and torso. Until all that’s is the wrapping around his cock and balls, which is still keeping him hard. Bond gets him onto his feet, helps him don the shirt again, and refastens the lead. “Let’s go home.”

It’s not until they’re in the car that Q’s frustrations get the most of him. He’s practically in tears when he asks, “Sir, are you upset with me?”

Bond looks over sharply. “No. I’m very pleased with you,” he assures, settling a hand on Q’s thigh under his coat and tracing the indentions the ropes left. “Very pleased.”

Q nods. He’s not sure what he feels. Probably just frustration and exhaustion, but tears are stinging his eyes.

James squeezes his thigh. “Trust me,” he says, and Q nods again.

When they get home, Q doesn’t know what to expect. He’s half-convinced Bond will take the collar off and kiss him good night at his door, but Bond leads Q to his own room.

“I want you to stay here tonight,” he says.

Q hesitates, eyes stinging again. He doesn’t know if he can lie next to Bond still wrapped and hard while his Dom sleeps. Doesn’t know if he can _submit_ to...

“Kerr?” James asks, cupping his face with both hands. “Have I ever not taken care of you?”

That… that jolts Q out of this spiral of thinking. “No sir. Never.”

“Let me tie you to the bed. Please.”

Q takes a steadying breath. “Yes sir.”

Bond uses the softest cuffs on Q’s wrists, fur-lined and supple. Bond kisses along all the marks the ropes have left. He’s tender. He whispers about how beautiful Q is. How perfect. And when he reaches Q’s cock, still hard and wrapped and weeping, he gently uncoils the ropes, until Q is completely free. Then he sucks Q into his mouth.

Q cries out from the intensity of it, despite the fact that James is being gentle and tender. And he is. It feels like… It doesn’t feel like the ministrations of the Dom. Despite the cuffs…

Q comes with an arch and a gasp and a sigh, and Bond swallows it and then climbs up Q’s body to nuzzle his neck. Kiss the collar and the skin around it. Q falls asleep with the weight of James' head resting on his chest, and he finds himself feeling oddly protective of him, and wishing he could comb his fingers through James’ hair.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter of this one (though I still have ideas, so so... sequel? outtakes? even I don't know).
> 
> This one fills the last prompt of the Collab Table: "my kink is true love."

It’s a bloody awful week, followed by Bond being out on a mission, followed by a bloody awful week.

There are three active missions and they are all utter shite. Q would be living on tea and hobnobs and would probably have to learn to photosynthesize in the fluorescent lights of Q Branch if it weren’t for Bond bringing him proper food. Bond is sent out again on Christmas Eve, so they miss the Saints and Sinner party at the club. In fact, they’ve barely been to the club in the last two weeks, forced to be satisfied with short scenes at home when they can grab them.

And now it’s the last week of the contract, and Q doesn’t even have time to send him naughty pictures of lingerie, because the bloody villains of the world decided to fuck ‘peace on earth’ thank you very much.

But this is what they do. And they’re _good_ this way. Q is in his ear throughout the mission. Even when there’s nothing much going on. Even when it’s the middle of the night and he should go home to his empty flat.

He hates hearing Bond get shot at, but it’s not a crippling fear. It’s a fiery rage that if anyone so much as _scratches_ Bond… their bank accounts, at the very least, will burn.

It’s close to midnight on the 30th when Q is pacing the flat, cleaning things that don’t need to be cleaned, and waiting. Bond’s mission is done, and he’s exhausted. Bond’s flight isn’t arriving until morning, but the man has never stayed where he didn’t want to be...

Sure enough, Q hears the key scratch in the door, and he nearly leaps into Bond’s arms when he clears the entry.

They don’t talk. Bond peels his coat off while still kissing Q and walks him backward into his bedroom in the dark. It’s just a matter of minutes before they are skin to skin, fingers threaded together Q’s legs wrapped around James’ hips. The sound James makes as he comes… Q has _missed_ it so much.

They fall asleep tangled together, and it’s the best Q’s felt in a week.

Q awakens to the light streaming into Bond’s room, making the agent’s skin glow gold. Q takes in his form. The tanned skin stretched over lean muscle, the light dusting of hair on his chest, the familiar scars. It’s perfect. It’s home.

That’s when he realizes he’s not wearing his collar. Not that he supposes it matters at this point.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” Bond murmurs, eyes still closed.

“Am I?” Q chuckles, letting his arm fall back over his head, looking at the ceiling. “Miss your lonely hotel rooms where you could get decent rest?”

“No,” Bond admits quickly. He sighs. “That’s actually the best I’ve slept since I left.”

Q smiles, and it’s answered in Bond’s soft smile, though his eyes are still closed.

“I was wondering,” Bond murmurs hesitantly. “I was… well, would you consider extending the contract?”

Q watches him for a long moment. He rolls onto his side and props his head up on his hand studying James and realizing that he won’t be satisfied with that anymore. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

The disappointment is clear on Bond’s face.

“But you could stay anyway,” Q adds, lying back down and nuzzling Bond's shoulder. “Stay anyway,” he whispers.

James opens his eyes and stares at the ceiling. “How would that work?”

“Hmmm. Largely how it’s _been_ working, I imagine,” Q says softly. “Except if we fell into bed again without a collar, it wouldn’t be a mistake. We could just… go to bed.”

Bond is silent for a moment, and Q holds his breath.

“Yeah, okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” Bond reaches for Q and pulls him down onto his chest. “I’m pretty sure I fell in love with you on Halloween.”

Q huffs a laugh and draws little circles on James' skin. “That’s good. I think I held out until…” He thinks a moment. “Until you poured wax on my skin. But then I was a goner.”

James threads his fingers into Q’s hair. Possessively.

Q sighs happily. “You know, my kink is ‘true love’.”

James huffs another sleepy laugh. “I’ll add it to the list.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for going on this journey with me!


End file.
